


Burning Butterflies

by CAW



Series: Roses In The Winter [3]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Altered Mental States, Blind Character, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Demonic Possession, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hemophilia, Homophobic Language, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Magic, Medical Conditions, Medical Examination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25785985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAW/pseuds/CAW
Summary: "The silence that followed was… nice. A slight breeze blew quietly across the patio and ruffled The Host's hair and trench coat while Dr. Iplier worked, his hands kneading the new bandages as he patiently waited for the doctor to tell him what to do. The Host desperately wanted to narrate his surroundings, see what Dr. Iplier looked like while he was working and to take in the setting that they were currently immersed in, but he didn't dare open his mouth. He didn't want to break the spell of silence that had fallen over them, the spell that had left both of the entities exposed to the elements and emotions swirling and whistling around them to the rarest degree. Having a sense removed had made The Host aware of the world around him in a way that having actual vision never could and, for once, The Host wanted someone else to feel it too, even if the sense removed was sound instead of sight.And what better person then the sweet, humorous, beautiful doctor in front of him to share this gift with.The perfect gift of true silence."
Relationships: (IMPLIED), The Host/Dr. Iplier, Wilford Warfstache/Bim Trimmer
Series: Roses In The Winter [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531637
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

The dead house was finally silent and this greatly pleased The Host, the blind entity's face remaining naturally placid as the party music that had been positively blaring on the first floor shut off abruptly with the shout of a certain demonic host. A burning sensation erupted in The Host's eye sockets, resulting in The Host biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed, as his sight flashed ominously across the bottom floor of Markiplier Manor and at the other entities hurriedly rushing into any room they could to crash for the night. Everytime his sight, which painted the corners of his fictionalized vision bright red, appeared through his cloth bandages, The Host swore that he could feel his face melting right off of the bone of his skull. 

That is, using magic to allow oneself to see after nearly five years of being totally blind hurts like a motherfucker… even though The Host used his power many, MANY times every single day. He _should_ be used to the wriggling feeling of smoky magic sliding inside the gaping holes in his head and creating artificial vision, but alas that was not the case.

The Host has never really been that good with pain anyway.

The Author made sure of that.

Pale moonlight shined gently through the round window that The Host sat quietly next to, the cold wind from the autumn air outside passing through the thin pieces of glass and causing The Host to shiver slightly as he shifted in his wooden seat for what felt like the sixth time since he had been in the attic. How he had even gotten up to said attic in the first place, with the hidden stairwell cleverly concealed by wood and plaster in a second floor room on the opposite end of the bosterous party, was still somewhat of a mystery, something that The Host had simply chalked up as something akin to _fate_ . And fate truly was a tricky little devil, especially when It led you to places you'd rather _not_ go.

The Host, his movements slow as to not disturb his comfy sitting position, reached down to his left beside his chair, feeling for a leathery texture with the tips of his fingers as his sight faded into view once more. Grunting in pain as fire slowly ignited in his eye sockets, The Host tilted his head left and, putting his limited, burning eyesight to good use, grabbed onto the spine of a brown leather book that he had kicked with the toe of his boot when he had sat down in his wooden seat nearly thirty minutes ago. The Host, who had gripped onto the splintery seat of his chair so he wouldn't tilt over too far while he retrieved the book, began to narrate quietly with a frown as he hoisted the book onto his lap and forced his sight to read the title of the novel.

_The Great Gatsby_

By: F. Scott Fitzgerald

"The Host is greatly interested in the fact that this novel is the attic of Darkiplier's home," The Host narrated aloud as he opened the yellowed pages to the publication date. Hissing in pain as his vision faded in and out of black, The Host gritted his teeth, ignored the stabbing feeling in his eyes, and continued to narrate to the empty attic, " _The Great Gatsby_ was published in 1925 and," The Host flipped to a random page only to find the old parchment completely covered in black handwriting, obscuring the original text in its messiness, "...seems to have been well used. The spine seems to barely hold together the pages, as several delicate pieces of the precious paper could slide easily into The Host's hands if he so chooses." And then, as if to prove a point, The Host tilted the book sideways and allowed many of the pages to escape from their home in the novel and flutter soundlessly to the wooden floor like feathers would if they fell off of a bird. 

The Host, his sight finally succumbing to inky blackness as the searing pain in his skull became a tad too much to bear, caught one of the pages in his right hand before it fell all the way to the ground, his thumb and pointer finger clutching the parchment tightly as The Host listened to his narration for a moment with a pursed mouth. He brought the piece of paper closer to his chest as a frown overtook his features, now clutching the paper in two hands and smudging the script handwritten on the paper to the point where it was almost unreadable.

"Upon further inspection of one of the pages of the classic American novel, The Host discovered something peculiar. More then one of the pages had been written on, a common practice that many people indulge in when they are analyzing a work of fiction. However, one page in particular caught The Host's attention. On top of Fitzgerald's masterfully described description of the reunion between the two lovers sat a singular word, something that caused The Host to pause. The word, written in black ink that was written in a spidery and thin calligraphy as it spread across the printed words like a web, read simply,

_'NEVERMORE.'_

The Host finds this word intriguing," The Host finished quietly as he creased and folded the creaking poem into a square and tucked it safely into the front pocket of his trench coat. He slicked back the blond strips of hair that fell haphazardly onto his forehead with a sweep of his hand and then placed his hands delicately on top of one another in his lap, the book resting on his thighs as The Host leaned his head back slightly and breathed in the cool night air with a blissful hum. It felt good to force himself to relax sometimes, even though it made The Host nauseous when he didn't narrate for long periods of time. 

It was at that moment his sight flashed once more, The Host unintentionally watching (because he had turned his head sideways to press his cheek against the cold glass of the window) as a certain doctor hurried out of the manor with a phone to his ear and an annoyed look on his face. "The Host's face then proceeded to turn a brilliant shade of crimson as he tried to hold back his attraction towards the young doctor," The Host muttered before ducking his head away from the glass, his paranoia making him believe that at any moment Dr. Iplier would look up and spot The Host leering at him through the attic window with shock and horror.

Droplets of blood dripped solemnly onto the blue covered novel in his lap as The Host cursed under his breath and allowed his vision to fade to nothing once more. Sighing in exasperation, The Host stood slowly from his seat and, cracking his back by stretching his arms over his head with a grunt, placed the now bloodied book onto his former seat before turning on his heel and walking quickly over to the rickety staircase that led from the attic to the second floor. "The Host needs to stop being such a pussy," The Host grumbled under his breath as he began his slow descent down the stairs, clutching onto the banister like his life depended on it ('which it kinda did', he though amusingly to himself), "He just needs to go talk to Dr. Iplier and his silly little crush should lessen significantly… most luckily… This logic seems flawed. But, quite frankly, The Host could give less of a damn."

  
And thus, once his feet were firmly on the shining wood of the second floor, off The Host went, determined to at least say hello to Dr. Iplier before he went to sleep for the night. And that was _final_.


	2. Chapter 2

In actuality, it took The Host close to twenty minutes to get from the third floor of Markiplier Manor all the way to the first, with the blind entity taking a quick detour to the kitchen to snag a plate of the  _ delicious _ lasagna Chef Iplier had made earlier that evening, before continuing along to his final destination. To say he wasn't proud of how long it had taken him to journey down two flights of stairs would be an understatement, since The Host tried to look like he didn't need any help due to his disability as much as he possibly could. But finally, biting into a piece of the cheesy pasta that he was holding on a paper plate with a fork as he stood silently, The Host was at the entrance (or the exit, depending on how you looked at it) of the stone patio where Dr. Iplier was practically shouting into his phone, heat thrumming up into his cheeks as The Host mumbled his narrations under his breath.

"The moon was full and bright as the beams of pure silver glinted down upon the doctor's broad frame," The Host hissed as he took a tiny step away from the window covered sundoor and shoved another piece of lasagna into his mouth, his nerves and phobia of being caught lingering at the forefront of his mind as he watched Dr. Iplier pace back and forth across the stone deck. The Host cringed as he listened to his narrations, knowing with a grim perspective that he had only had ONE conversation with the doctor and, yet, was already infatuated with him. That simply wasn't normal, was it? "The certain phrase The Host seemed to be looking for to describe his current predicament was 'love at first sight'," The Host commented quietly before cursing under his breath and shoveling another bite of pasta into his mouth with a grimace.

The Host knew that he was a romantic deep, deep,  _ deep  _ down, but there are just somethings that weren't meant to be. And love, unfortunately, was something that The Host was extremely unlucky in. If he really wished to point fingers, he could blame The Author for that too. But, as The Host had long ago accepted (begrudgingly, but accepted nonetheless), there was no use holding grudges over the dead. It just wasn't worth it in the long run.

"I understand that, Dr. Johnson! The problem is is that I'm all the way on the outskirts of LA right now and I have no way of getting to the hospital," Dr. Iplier was practically yelling into his phone at this point, one hand gripping the metal contraption like a vice and the other stuffed deep into the pocket of his white lab coat. The Host, stepping back a few steps to place his empty plate on a wooden stool to his left already loaded with dirtied dishes, listened curiously with a tilt to his head as the doctor laughed darkly and spat, "Well no shit! If you need someone  _ that _ badly and the patient is in  _ that  _ bad of condition, just call Dr. Kent! She's supposed to arrive in an hour anyway!"

"This does not seem to be an opportune moment for The Host to interact with Dr. Iplier," The Host rumbled as he walked silently back to where he had been standing before, wiping away any of the remaining lasagna or sauce that may be prowling on his fingers onto the side of his trench coat. He took a shaky breath, listening to Dr. Iplier continue to argue with whoever this 'Johnson' was with a growing sense of unease. "The Host began to think that perhaps… he should return at a later time? When the doctor was not screaming into his phone?" The Host narrated, a coil of anxiety slithering into his stomach as he bit the inside of his lip.

He was nervous, that much was for sure. But…  _ what  _ was he nervous about? Was he nervous that he would never muster up the courage to approach the doctor again, though that seemed highly improbable in his mind. Was he nervous just because he was letting his mind get the best of him, which it so often and painfully did. Or… was he nervous about being under the heated glare that Dr. Iplier seemed to be throwing towards the rooftops, the doctor, almost as if he heard The Host's thought, sighing loudly and raking his free hand down his face before speaking again in a much more hushed tone. 

Snorting softly under his breath, The Host concluded that it was probably all three of the above fears that was making him cautious about what he should do next. They were all irrational, to some extent, but fears nonetheless. "And the only way to get over a fear," The Host continued to narrate, his hand hovering oh so lightly over the iron handle leading to the stone patio, "Is to face it head on."

"Alright, alright. Yep. I'll have to talk to you- Yeah, uh huh. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay Dennis? Alright. Have a good one." The Host halted his stream of narration, a migraine headache threatening to incapacitate him for the rest of his evening as a result, and listened as Dr. Iplier tapped a few buttons on his phone and muttered obscenities under his breath as he locked the cellular device. Quirking a curious brow, a small seed of anxiety still growing deep in the pit of his stomach, The Host listened and whispered the occasional word to the now booming silence as the doctor's pacing footsteps grew fainter and fainter before stopping altogether seemingly by the edge of the balcony. And, to make sure of this fact, The Host allowed his vision to seep into his eyes once more…

...and felt his jaw drop to the floor at what he saw. The moon, though now slightly obscured by thin clouds, glowed and radiated down upon the doctor just like he had described earlier, but somehow his narrations had completely missed just how… how… "Beautiful," The Host whispered wistfully, taking in as much of the scene as he could before he was forced into darkness once more. Dr. Iplier was casually leaning against the stone balcony railing, his back to The Host and his head tilted at the perfect angle to reflect the stars that were shining upon his defined jawline. He seemed to be looking for something in the dark forest to his right, his wrists crossed on the railing and his expression intense almost to the point of clinical.

It was at this point that The Host carefully reached down and twisted the iron doorknob, leaning his shoulder against the patio door to gently shove it open as his vision faded and his blood cruised down his cheeks. "Fuck coming back later. The Host, though he looks like a mess, is talking to Dr. Iplier right now," The Host narrated under his breath, stepping through the now open door and onto the stone patio as he made sure to pull the patio door tightly closed behind him.

Keeping his footsteps light, The Host ambled his way over to Dr. Iplier, tucking a hand into one of the deep pockets of his trench coat and biting the inside of his cheek as his resolve melted and his nervousness returned. What could he even say to the doctor that wouldn't make it obvious he had been eavesdropping earlier? Something that he had heard from when they had talked earlier would work, wouldn't it? Glancing off the balcony and to the right to get a good look of the dark emerald forest, The Host breathed out and tried to Will himself to relax as he counted the trees slowly in his head. 

One, two, three, four…

"Christ almighty!" The Host startled, his feet stumbling over one of the stone tiles in front of him with mumbled narrations escaping his lips, as a startled voice cut through his counting sharply. After tripping forward a few steps, The Host managed to catch himself before he fell and cracked his head open, his sight slamming back into his body and making him instantly sick as both his hands flailed outwards to try to catch him should he fall. Wincing in pain as his eyes slowly began to feel like fire again, The Host, his breathing shallow and quick, bent over slightly and rested his hands on his knees with a huff, waiting for the world to fade to darkness around him before even daring to stand up straight again.

Well,  _ that _ hadn't gone the way The Host had expected. Like, at  _ all _ .

Grasping at his thighs with his hands to ground himself, The Host stiffly stood up straight, listening carefully and narrating softly the oncoming sound of footprints that were approaching him from where Dr. Iplier had been standing earlier. He couldn't stop himself from wincing and leaning backwards as he felt a steady hand grasp at his shoulder, just from old habit alone, but, when the smell of spearmint and antibacterial liquid hit the back of his nose instead of the usual blood and peaches, The Host visibly relaxed under the hand.

And then he realized whose hand it was and The Host felt mortification flood through him like a forest fire.

"The Host deeply apologises for disturbing Dr. Iplier," The Host began shakily, taking a step back and allowing the heavy hand to fall off of his shoulder. He crossed his arms, his stance anything but aggressive, as he tried to think of a topic that they had discussed earlier and NOT of how his shoulder felt all nice and warm and tingly from where the doctor had touched it. 

A breathy laugh came from Dr. Iplier and The Host froze. Shit, did he just narrate aloud? "You're not bothering me, Host," Dr. Iplier replied, his feet shuffling against the ground as The Host briefly used his sight to watch the doctor lick his lips and cough with a mildly embarrassed expression. "I, uh, actually welcome the company. Being awake at 3:30 in the morning by yourself is fucking boring, to say the least."

"The Host understands," The Host responded quickly, probably  _ too _ quickly if he was completely honest, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Pursing his lips in thought, The Host, since being spontaneous was not in his nature at all, thought carefully about what he was going to say next, almost as if he were writing a book and he was trying to think of dialogue for his characters. "...how did Dr. Iplier enjoy the meeting?" The Host asked eventually, one of his hands digging into his bicep after realizing a second too late he had already ASKED this question when the doctor and him had talked earlier that night.

A snort came from the direction in which Dr. Iplier was standing, The Host raising a brow as a small smirk overtook his concerned look. "God, where to begin," Dr. Iplier grumbled, The Host hearing the obvious disapproving tone in the doctor's voice, "Literally could've spent my time doing  _ anything else _ and it would have been time well spent."

"Did the doctor at least indulge in a few refreshments?" The Host asked in a somewhat teasing manner as he stepped closer to Dr. Iplier and breathed in the clean scent of spearmint with a contented hum. He was starting to learn just how much he enjoyed that particular smell.

"Well, yeah. Of course I did. But I couldn't drink too much because I was on call with the hospital. I'd get fired in an instant if I showed up inebriated."

The Host nodded his head gravely as he uncrossed his arms and stuffed his hands into his trench coat pockets, feeling the folded up page against his fingers as he rolled the words he had just heard all around in his mind. That was the perfect in to bring up the conversation The Host had heard Dr. Iplier having on the phone, though he wasn't so sure why he cared so much about this particular phone call. It was just a call from the hospital, right? "Are you still on call now?" The Host asked mildly as he let his vision flood with color and silently looked at Dr. Iplier's content expression behind the safety of his bandages. 

Wow. He was even better looking up close. 

A small migraine was beginning to form at the front of his mind as the words he wanted to narrate remained bottled deep inside The Host. He didn't particularly trust himself to not start comparing Dr. Iplier to the sun and himself to the Earth, so the only safe thing to do was to keep quiet and take plenty of Advil once he got back inside the Manor. "Unfortunately," Dr. Iplier sighed, his face twisting into an annoyed expression as he looked away from The Host and back towards the forest with a shake of his head, "I don't have any way of getting to the hospital, which was a  _ huge _ misstep on my part. Sure I have a car, but the Manor must have industrialized locks or something because I literally can't get the front doors open no matter how much I pull or push on them."

The Host, gritting his teeth as he forced his sight to continue looking at Dr. Iplier, nodded solemnly and replied thoughtfully, "Darkiplier probably puts magic around the house to keep intruders out during the night time."

Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head again with a long, drawn out sigh. "That's inconvenient," the doctor muttered as he tapped a shoe impatiently against the ground, "Jesus. Now I look like an asshole."

"The Host does not think Dr. Iplier is an asshole," The Host responded helpfully before clamping his mouth shut and nearly bowling over as the pain from his eyes almost became too much to bear. Not only had he almost exposed himself concerning the overhearing Dr. Iplier's conversation on the phone, but he'd almost expelled all his energy and magic just to keep his sight on the pretty doctor before him. Resolving to let go of his sight almost reluctantly, The Host sighed and stated softly, almost tenderly, "The Host believes that Dr. Iplier is anything but an asshole. He seems genuine when he states he wishes he had had the foresight to predict that the Manor would be magicked once Darkiplier arrived home. Therefore, The Host can't fault the doctor simply because he is human-ish and can't see into the future."

The Host braved one last look at Dr. Iplier's face and found that the doctor's cheeks were tinted with the tinists of pinks as he looked at The Host with a serious expression. Gulping back the warm feeling buzzing in his stomach, The Host finally allowed darkness to invade his vision and swallow him back into his own mind, not even minding when fat drops of blood began to slowly drip out of his eyes and down his own rose tainted cheeks. That had gotten a bit intense, hadn't it? The Host nearly chuckled to himself when he heard a gasp come from Dr. Iplier.

"The fuck is going on with your eyes!?"

Soft hands firmly grabbed the sides of The Host's face and tilted him forward, The Host feeling his muscles freeze momentarily as panic seized deep in his chest. It was just Dr. Iplier. Not… not The Author. Allowing the doctor to examine his head with a sharp intake of breath, The Host pressed his lips into a thin line and bunched his hands into fists at his sides. The spearmint that permeated Dr. Iplier once again helped calm his racing heart to a steady rhythm. "The Host assures Dr. Iplier that it is perfectly normal for The Host to start bleeding after using his sight for extended periods of time," The Host replied smoothly, allowing his sight to return to his sore eye sockets to briefly examine the face of the doctor in front of him. Dr. Iplier's eyes were narrowed and focused as he tilted The Host's sharply to the left, The Host trying not to hiss in pain as his sight was jolted out of him from the movement. "The Host is fine-"

"The fuck you are," Dr. Iplier snapped coolly before turning The Host's head straight once again and running one knuckle over the bloodied bandages covering The Host's ruined eyes, "When was the last time you changed these?"

The Host tried to ignore the embarrassed flush that was beginning to take over his face as he heard Dr. Iplier take a step away from him and begin rummaging for something in his own coat pocket with a grumble. "...The Host is unsure," The Host muttered quietly, crossing his arms behind his back and bowing his head slightly to listen to what Dr. Iplier was doing. God, The Host really hadn't been taking care of himself, had he? He couldn't even remember the last time he had even THOUGHT about changing his bandages, his mind always circling through ideas concerning his books, The Author's books, and just his narrations in general. On a pleasant note, at least The Host  _ knew _ he looked intimidating if his face was permanently stained with ruby red blood. Perhaps that was why he hadn't been harassed lately when he rarely left his house in the woods and journeyed to the big city to get some food besides oatmeal and saltines. Everyone had been  _ scared  _ of him.

Laughing darkly at the irony of his situation, The Host squeezed his hands tightly together and tried to remain as still as possible as he heard Dr. Iplier make a noise of triumph and take a step back towards The Host. "Really?" Dr. Iplier asked sarcastically, The Host's own mouth curling into a sly grin as he audibly heard the doctor click his tongue and huff under his breath before fiddling with the thing in his hands, "I  _ never  _ would have guessed."

"The Host is detecting some sarcasm, Doctor"

"Well, The Host would be right on the fucking money then."

The Host laughed at that, feeling a few more drops of blood glide silently down his cheek, before feeling Dr. Iplier's cold hands on the sides of his head again, tilting the blind entity's head to the side before removing one of his hands completely. Raising a brow, The Host, his smile slowly fading, asked softly, "What is it that Dr. Iplier is trying to do?"

He didn't get a response right away, The Host's brows furrowing together as he dropped his sweating palms to his sides and awaited the doctor's response. Finally, The Host heard the familiar voice say carefully through the darkness, "In my professional opinion, you should change those bandages as soon as possible. I happen to have extra bandages on me. I carry them just in case something happens and I'm not at the hospital. So, if you'd like, I can help you change your bloody bandages for new ones?" Listening to Dr. Iplier's words as a flustered feeling erupted like a volcano of butterflies in his chest, The Host focused far too intently on how softly the doctor was cradling the side of his head with one of his hands instead of answering his request. 

It felt like the hand of an angel was pillowing and healing the side of his aching head. 

Almost unable to stop himself, The Host started narrating under his breath, hardly even hearing the words he was saying as they tumbled out of his lips like a waterfall. His head almost immediately felt better as he did so, the roller coaster of emotions and memories and feelings that The Host had been experiencing during his encounter with Dr. Iplier finally escaping into the night air after being confined into the small space of his brain for so long. "You- I can give you the bandages too, if that makes you feel more comfortable. I don't want to make it seem like I'm the only one who can wrap bandages around your head because I'm sure you can do it on your goddamn own, but my offer still stands."

And just like that, The Host snapped his mouth closed once more, closing the floodgates to contain his thoughts and feeling the beginnings of another migraine appear at the back of his skull.

"The Host gives his consent to Dr. Iplier so that he can assist The Host in removing his bandages," The Host said calmly, smiling gently as he tried to conceal a wince of pain and extended his hand outwards to take the clean bandages he knew were in Dr. Iplier's hand. 

Feeling a soft cloth fall into his hand, The Host grasped the fabric tightly in between his fingers and breathed in deeply as Dr. Iplier brought up his other hand to start undoing the bindings that held his bandages in place. "Let me know if I pull something too tight or pull some of your hair by accident," Dr. Iplier stated clinically as The Host nodded lazily as a response, focusing on the feeling of the doctor's cool hands against his normally feverish skin. 

The silence that followed was… nice. A slight breeze blew quietly across the patio and ruffled The Host's hair and trench coat while Dr. Iplier worked, his hands kneading the new bandages as he patiently waited for the doctor to tell him what to do. The Host desperately wanted to narrate his surroundings, see what Dr. Iplier looked like while he was working and to take in the setting that they were currently immersed in, but he didn't dare open his mouth. He didn't want to break the spell of silence that had fallen over them, the spell that had left both of the entities exposed to the elements and emotions swirling and whistling around them to the rarest degree. Having a sense removed had made The Host aware of the world around him in a way that having actual vision never could and, for once, The Host wanted someone else to feel it too, even if the sense removed was sound instead of sight. 

And what better person then the sweet, humorous,  _ beautiful _ doctor in front of him to share this gift with. 

The perfect gift of true silence

So caught up in his thoughts was The Host that he hardly noticed the cold air gliding easily into his now exposed eye sockets. In fact, he didn't notice this until he realised that Dr. Iplier had stopped moving altogether, the doctor feeling stiff in front of him. The Host sighed inwardly. It wasn't the first time someone had stopped to gawk at his wounds before and he certainly couldn't  _ fault  _ Dr. Iplier for his silence-

"That's, uh," Dr. Iplier stuttered before clearing his throat, one hand coming to grab the bandages in The Host's hand and instead just resting there as if to comfort The Host. Internally, The Host nearly melted at the contact. "That- isn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"Dr. Iplier does not have to lie to appease The Host-"

"No, no. I mean it." Dr. Iplier squeezed The Host's hand reassuringly before reaffirming firmly, "I  _ mean _ it." Silence descended like a curtain upon them once more, The Host feeling the air grow electrified as the aloneness of the night seemed to amplify the emotions running amuck between them. "My name is Edward, by the way," Dr. Iplier broke the beautiful silence with his words, but The Host didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.

"And mine is Isaac," The Host replied softly, feeling the doctor shift from side to side before humming in acknowledgement and dragging the bandages off of The Host's hand to prepare them for The Host's face.

And, even IF he had imagined Dr. Iplier's hand lingering just a bit longer then necessary on his fingertips, The Host couldn't deny even if he tried that he was unimaginably happy under the moonlight right then. That was a miracle in of itself.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning sun felt warm on The Host's tanned skin and the entity breathed in gently from his place on the couch, his hands resting in his lap as he listened to the story Dr. Iplier was muttering under his breath from his own cushioned seat beside The Host. At some point during the early hours of the morning (The Host wasn't completely sure when), the pair had migrated back inside the cool confines of the Manor, Dr. Iplier bustling quickly to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee as The Host meandered into the living room and narrated a few of the paintings on the walls. Right in the middle of describing a gorgeous replica of Edvard Munch's  **The Kiss** with an intrigued frown on his lips, the doctor had returned with two cracking, steaming mugs and an invitation to talk a little while longer as they drank the dark liquid. And, while The Host hadn't touched the mug after he had placed it on the table several hours prior, he took Dr. Iplier's offer graciously and had talked about anything and everything that so much as graced his thoughts as the night had slowly faded into dawn.

Now, with Dr. Iplier spinning a wild tale about a crazy experience he had had with a patient that had gotten an eggplant stuck up her ass, The Host was quite peaceful, idoly twisting his fingers and nodding along to the doctor's story when it was appropriate. 

"Like I said, this girl was going  _ nuts _ and I kept telling her, 'You need to stay still while the anesthesiologist injects you with the meds that'll numb the pain. The surgeon should be here in three minutes tops.' Of course, that probably was the wrong thing to say since then she started flipping out even more and tried to throw herself out of the hospital bed like a fucking fish. Meanwhile, Dr. Chrisstenson is  _ still _ trying to calm down the girl's boyfriend, who looked like he was ten seconds away from punching him in the face-"

Was it wrong for The Host to flash his sight and look at Dr. Iplier's full lips whenever he talked? Maybe…? Allowing a small smile to appear on his own lips, The Host sighed happily and squeezed his hands together to ground himself, his nails biting into the palms of his hands as he continued to listen attentively. He was beginning to learn just how much he  _ loved _ to hear the doctor speak aloud.

"-finally managed to get the girl knocked out and put under for surgery, but  _ I swear _ . It was like we were fucking  _ murdering  _ her. And through that whole process, I just kept thinking to myself-"

"How did the girl even get the eggplant up her ass in the first place?"

"EXACTLY!"

The Host chuckled lightly at Dr. Iplier's outburst, the entity finding that the doctor's story was a bit more outlandish then the doctor was probably letting on. After all, shoving an uncut eggplant up one's ass was impossible… at least, The Host hoped it was. Nope. Not even going to think about it. "Is Dr. Iplier  _ sure  _ that the eggplant was not just a toy of some sort?" The Host asked mildly, immediately regretting his promiscuous words as a deep red blush spread like a wildfire across his face. He mentally berated himself, trying not to let his stern words come flying out of his mouth in the form of narration as Dr. Iplier fell silent next to him. The Host just wasn't used to being around someone he liked; he wasn't used to being around people  _ period. _ The Host's home was very isolated, no thanks to The Author and his unparalleled paranoia about intruders stealing his books or manuscripts.

"I think I know my way well enough around butt plugs to know one when I see one, Host. And THAT was no buttplug, that's for goddamn sure."

The Host nearly choked on his saliva as the doctor's words tumbled from his lips, The Host sitting up straight and tapping his chest a few times to make sure he didn't choke as Dr. Iplier started to positively  _ cackle _ beside him. Sending a pointed nod in the doctor's direction, The Host cleared his throat a few times before muttering with the hint of a laugh in his voice, "Dr. Iplier does not need to be so  _ crude _ ! A simple explanation would have sufficed well enough."

Dr. Iplier's laughter stopped for a moment as he took a drink from his coffee mug, The Host tilting his head to listen as he let his sight naturally bleed into his vision. The living room they were sitting in, which The Host examined closely, seemed to be significantly less messy then the other rooms The Host had seen in the Manor so far. The wooden floor was almost completely devoid of any trash other then the odd shattered painting and the couch was relatively comfy to sit upon, a fact The Host greatly appreciated after spending most of the night standing outside on the patio. A small chandelier also hung in the center of the room, several of the diamonds glimmering from the morning sun as they swung lazily in their iron prison. Some empty spots on the chandelier, from where the diamonds had either fallen or had been taken off, stuck out like a sore thumb to The Host, but he doubted he would have even noticed if it had been night time. 

"Host?" 

Snapping back into focus, The Host twisted to look directly at the doctor, his head beginning to throb dully from the quick movement. "Hm?" The Host replied, his eye sockets beginning to burn the longer he held onto his sight, "What did Dr. Iplier say?"

Rolling his eyes goodnaturedly, Dr. Iplier smirked and replied teasingly, "Oh, so now you're not  _ listening _ to me? I'm insulted, Host. I thought we had something  _ special _ ." The doctor poked The Host gently in the ribs, The Host immediately curling inwards on himself with a snort and a noise of protest. Goddammit. Right when the roses were finally being plucked from his cheeks, Dr. Iplier had to go and plant some more.

Sitting up straight and shifting slightly in his seat so he was out of poking range (Dr. Iplier watched all of this with a knowing smirk and a quirked brow), The Host hissed under his breath and let his vision go dark. He wrapped his arms around himself and let his fingers ghost the area that Dr. Iplier had poked with a fond feeling in his chest. Smiling softly, The Host responded casually, "The Host was  _ selectively listening _ , Doctor. The Host asked Dr. Iplier to repeat himself to make sure that the doctor  _ himself  _ had been listening to what he had said to The Host."

"...What?! That doesn't even make any sense!"

"It makes perfect sense,  _ Edward _ . The Host forgives you for not listening earlier."

Dr. Iplier laughed and The Host had to resist the urge to start narrating how joyful and wonderful the sound actually was. Instead, he settled for grinning like an idiot and forcing his painful sight to return, watching happily as Dr. Iplier calmed himself down with another sloppy sip of his coffee. Some of the nasty brown liquid fell from the doctor's lips and onto his white jacket, The Host beginning to reach out to wipe at the spot with his hand before embarrassment flushed through his body for what felt like the tenth time that day and he returned his hand to his lap almost sheepishly. He clamped his other hand on top of the intruding hand as if to hold it in place as he shakily looked at everything except the doctor sitting in front of him. In his mind, The Host silently concluded that the reason why these feelings were called  _ crushes  _ was because they slowly crushed your nerves until there was nothing holding you back from doing something, undoubtedly, very stupid.

When The Host finally did muster the courage to look at Dr. Iplier directly, he was met with a curious expression, the doctor's chocolate eyes intense as he steadily gazed at The Host's bandages with a look that could sway over even the toughest of patients. "Using the first name, huh?" Dr. Iplier commented, his hands turning white from his grip on his coffee mug as The Host nodded with a hiss of pain. Raising a brow at the noise, the doctor cleared his throat before looking away from The Host and staring off into nothing, placing his coffee cup onto the couch side table as he turned right to gaze directly at the sunlight streaming patio doors. "I don't think anyone's used my first name since I was a kid," Dr. Iplier joked as he laced his fingers together in his lap, The Host nodding again as an icy fear shot through his veins. Should he have not said the doctor's first name? Why did he tell The Host his first name if he didn't want The Host to use it? Did The Host misjudge the amount of time it takes for people to start referring to each other on a first name basis?

"It's… nice."

Huh.

Well then.

"The Host is glad Dr. Iplier is not upset," The Host replied hurriedly, letting go of the breath he had been holding onto for the past thirty seconds as a feeling of relief washed over him. A thick drop of blood bubbled up from under his bandages, The Host swearing under his breath as he let his sight go again and pretended that he hadn't just ruined Dr. Iplier's brand new bandages because he was being a love sick idiot. "Dr. Iplier can also refer to The Host's real name if he so chooses as well," The Host reaffirmed with a smile as he patted Dr. Iplier on the back, ignoring the jolt of electricity that shot up his arm at the contact.

Hearing an intake of breath next to him, The Host felt a giddy feeling rake up his body as the doctor shift closer to him and patted The Host on the back as well. "Sounds good," Dr. Iplier started before elbowing The Host in the side lightly with a chuckle and finishing with a smirk in his voice, " _ Isaac _ ."

"The Host will not hesitate to push Dr. Iplier off the couch if he pokes or elbows The Host again. This is Dr. Iplier's warning." The Host smirked before shoving Dr. Iplier hard, the doctor yelping loudly as The Host laughed goodnaturedly before Dr. Iplier planted his feet to prevent The Host from making good of his promise.

"Oh wow. I didn't realize you were so  _ sensitive _ there… Is that fucking blood I see, Host? What the Hell?! We  _ just  _ changed your bandages!"

Gulping, The Host allowed Dr. Iplier to shimmy back onto the couch and scootch closer to him, the doctor's side pressed firmly against The Host's as the clean smell of spearmint overwhelmed The Host once again. Cold hands went to the entity's face as The Host stiffened and stuttered, "The Host can explain-"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Freezing in his seat, the doctor's hands still gripping tightly to his face, The Host enacted his sight (much to his body's burning protests) and turned slightly to gaze lightly at the face of the person that had just come through the door that led from the kitchen. To be honest, The Host couldn't even see the man's face very well, pixelated dots covering all of the entity's face except for the white beard that grew from his chin. That and his head was beginning to feel like an ice pick was being drilled into it from not narrating aloud for nearly forty-five minutes and from using his sight too many times. The fire that erupted from behind his bandages grew in intensity as The Host took in the entity's red suit, thick globs of blood steadily rolling down his cheeks as he tried not to cry out in anguish. Jesus, his sight hurt like a motherfucker.

" _ Yes _ ." The Host metaphorically blinked a few times at the stone cold tone of Dr. Iplier, the doctor raising a brow at the entity in the doorway before turning back to The Host and frowning deeply at the rubies that now adorned The Host's cheeks. Another flush creeped on The Host's face under the doctor's intense glare, his sight quickly disappearing as he felt one of Dr. Iplier's thumbs wipe at one of the blood drops. "I was in the middle of helping The Host with his bandages before you came stomping in here," Dr. Iplier grumbled, his cold hands letting go of The Host's face as The Host listened to the entity sputter from across the room, " _ What do you want? _ "

Seemingly gaining his composure, the entity huffed, The Host beginning to narrate oh so quietly under his breath to understand what was going on, and snapped, "Some of the others were looking for you," The Host frowned when Santaiplier (for that was his name) pointed at him, "because apparently there's going to be a meeting after breakfast and they can't start without you."

"But Santaiplier is leaving," The Host interjected, wincing slightly when Dr. Iplier pulled at the sticky bandages covering his head and started to remove them slowly, "Shouldn't he stay as well since the meeting is supposed to include ALL of the entities?"

Santaiplier laughed loudly, a booming noise that rattled the room with its power, before replying, "I have work that needs to be done at the South Pole! Christmas doesn't just run itself, you know!" He fixed the two entities with a stern look before continuing solemnly, "I have to go over the Naughty and Nice List again and THAT is going to take a long time!"

Shaking his head in annoyance beside The Host, Dr. Iplier huffed as he pulled an especially bloody piece of cloth off of The Host and muttered under his breath, "Lucky you." Cold air washed over The Host's empty eye sockets and caused The Host to shiver, the entity hearing Santaiplier inhale sharply as The Host turned to look at the jolly man head on. Smiling crookedly, he could almost feel the fear dripping off of Santaiplier. And The Host would be lying if he said he didn't get a  _ little  _ excited as the thrilling feeling of power washed through his veins. "Is that all?" Dr. Iplier's words brought The Host back from whatever brink he had been teetering on, his mind turning from his dark thoughts as a warm cloth was wrapped around his head and the clean smell of anti-bacterial gel practically stung his nose.

"...yes." The Host swore at Santaiplier's timid response, cursing himself and clenching his hands into angry fists for even taking the tiniest bit of pleasure from scaring the shit out of someone. The Host listened as the jolly man creaked the kitchen door open, guilt swimming low in his gut as Santaiplier stepped through the door and called behind him, "Make sure you two behave! Remember, I see EVERYTHING!"

"Oh, don't I know it," Dr. Iplier grumbled as he continued to wind the bandages around The Host's head, the entity muttering narrations calmly as the pounding in his head reduced with each word. The bandages felt like heaven against The Host's raw skin, the cloth soft to the touch and almost as warm as the sunbeams radiating on The Host's skin. To say that The Host was grateful for Dr. Iplier would be an  _ understatement _ . "So. Another meeting, huh? How much do you wanna bet it's going to be another massive waste of time?"

The Host laughed, feeling Dr. Iplier remove his hands from The Host's face as he giggled quietly as well. Reaching a hand up to touch the doctor's handiwork, The Host pursed his lips and replied in mock shock, "What kind of man do you think The Host is, Doctor?! Because if Dr. Iplier thinks that The Host can be swayed to bet on something as stupid as the contents of a meeting," he paused for dramatic effect, "Then Dr. Iplier is completely correct. The Host bets a twenty dollar gift card to Starbucks that the meeting will be at least  _ somewhat  _ beneficial." The Host leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms with a smirk gracing his features. "Make your move, Doctor."

"I thought you said you didn't even like coffee."

"The reason why The Host has a Starbucks gift card is unimportant."

"Seems a little suspicious to me, but-"

" _ Doctor _ ."

The Host crossed his legs as he waited for Dr. Iplier to make his wager, the doctor making a hm-ing sound that The Host definitely didn't find super adorable. Finally, Dr. Iplier snapped his fingers, The Host trying not to grin too widely, and said with a hint of smugness in his voice, "I bet twenty bucks in cash that the meeting is going to suck. Do we have a deal?"

"All that time to think and that's  _ all  _ Dr. Iplier could come up with?"

"Do we have a deal,  _ Isaac _ ?"

The Host laughed, delighting in the way his chest filled with joy at the sound of his name, his  _ actual _ name, on the doctor's lips. Biting the inside of his cheek, The Host nodded sharply and replied cheekily, "The Host  _ readily  _ accepts Dr. Iplier's wager."


	4. Chapter 4

As it  _ unsurprisingly _ turns out, serving breakfast to twenty or so people in a kitchen with a capacity of three was easier said than done.

"Move outta the way, you yellow bellied bastard! I'm fuckin' starvin' over here!"

"Are these omelets vegan? I'm literally allergic to anything that isn't vegan-"

"Dude, that smells soo good! I couldn't cook like that even if I tried!"

"HOT FOOD! Hot food coming through!"

"Can I help with the breakfast preparations, Oscar-San?"

"What did I tell you?"

The Host perked up at the sound of Dr. Iplier's voice, his senses relaxing as he leaned against the wall and focused on just the doctor's smooth baritone instead of the ensuing chaos surrounding him. It was a quarter to nine and apparently that was when the majority of Bim's guests decided to wake up, almost as if by clockwork. The Host would've been spooked by the simultaneous action if he didn't know any better. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it) he did. Feeling one of the entitys brush past him, no doubt carrying a plate of delicious food if the smell was anything to go by, The Host smirked and muttered just above a whisper, "The doctor sounds so confident and yet the meeting hasn't  _ begun _ ."

A snort echoed into The Host's ear as he felt a hand clap him the shoulder good naturedly, The Host choosing to ignore the butterflies taking flight in his stomach due to the proximity between him and Dr. Iplier. "Mhmm," the doctor murmered, The Host briefly flashing his vision to look at the bemused man beside him and to make sure that the small kitchen hadn't been set on fire, "The fucking meeting hasn't started and already people are screaming at eachother." Dr. Iplier nodded his head towards the ongoing fight that was going on between Opinion and Chef Iplier, the chef trying to usher the minion out of the kitchen and into the lobby with lots of shouting and erratic hand movements.

Chuckling lightly, The Host pushed himself off the wall and grabbed Dr. Iplier's arm, the doctor following obediently as The Host turned on his heel and walked back into the living room. The white door swung upon at the barest of touches, the broken wood cool against The Host's heated skin, and The Host stepped through, breathing in deeply with a sigh as a muffled silence enveloped his ears. Silence always proved to help The Host calm down when he felt overstimulated by his senses. "The Host warns Dr. Iplier not to count his chickens before they hatch," The Host replied solemnly, letting go of the doctor's arm as he turned to face him head on. His sight flooded into his eyes just in time for The Host to see Dr. Iplier roll his eyes and cross his arms over his chest, The Host forcing the laugh bubbling in his throat to remain contained within his body. Snickering lightly, The Host managed to say straight lipped, "Dr. Iplier may not like the results if he does not."

Making an incredulous face, Dr. Iplier narrowed his eyes and protested haughty, "One thing you'll learn about me, Host, is that my instincts are  _ never wrong _ ." The Host opened his mouth to retort playfully, but, instead, he let a single laugh erupt from his throat before clapping a hand over his mouth with a squeak. One of Dr. Iplier's eyebrows rose significantly at the sound, The Host letting out another short laugh from between his fingers, as he snapped with no bite, "What I'm  _ trying _ to say is that if my instincts are telling me the meeting is going to be a shitstorm, then the meeting is-"

"-going to be a shitstorm," The Host finished as he let his hand fall from his face, tilting his head to the side as the doctor glared at him while fighting a smile, "The Host apologizes for interrupting, but sometimes the doctor can be quite predictable with what he says."

" _ Woooow.  _ That's nice," Dr. Iplier deadpanned, his eyes glimmering with unspoken amusement as The Host felt his sight slip away from him like a slippery serpent. Trapped in darkness once more, The Host stuffed his hands deep into his trench coat pockets, his finicky narrations bubbling and pounding at the forefront of his mind as something crashed loudly in the kitchen. "Christ almighty," The Host listened to Dr. Iplier's annoyed tone as he bit the inside of his cheek to reduce the amount of stress going to his brain and to slow the erratic beating of his heart.

"Perhaps The Host and Dr. Iplier should get some breakfast and join the others?" Huh. That's not what he wanted to say. Not in the slightest. If The Host had his way, he and the beautiful doctor in front of him would  _ never  _ leave the supposed safety of the living room. They would just continue to talk about nothing and everything all day and all night long, the chandelier glinting and glowing under the sun and stars all the while… Was that selfish? The Host undoubtedly thought so. A creature as smart and as lovely as Dr. Iplier deserved to be shared with everyone, not just locked away in a cage and forced to communicate with one lonely entity day in and day out. That would just be cruel, wouldn't it?

According to The Author, it would be.

Hearing a sigh in front of him, The Host listened intently, his head still cocked to the side, as Dr. Iplier brushed down the front of his hospital scrubs and said in what The Host  _ hoped  _ was a resigned fashion, "That's probably a good idea." The sound of heavy footfalls echoed around the nearly empty living room as the doctor retreated from The Host and approached the door that led to the kitchen. Spearmint lingered in the air around The Host almost mockingly as Dr. Iplier called from the door, "I'll get your food too. Save me a seat in the dining room, okay?"

Nodding gently, The Host waited until he had heard the door open and close with a creak of the rusted hinges before letting his thoughts come cascading from his lips in a torrent all at once. He could feel his blood dripping from his sweaty palms and into his pockets, his hands coiling into tight, shamefully fists as his pockets were stained with wine and his self-narration slowly became more ominous and depressed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sitting in the middle of the dining room, his feet planted firmly on the ground and his hands tucked deeply into his pockets, The Host was beginning to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. His senses had been going haywire ever since he had stepped into the crowded room, all of Bimothy's guests either talking near the wide entrance, sitting at the large, wooden table in the middle of the room, or gathering breakfast morsels in the cramped kitchen (much to Chef Iplier's dismay, if his shouts of protest were anything to go by). All of the voices surrounding him were slowly drilling their way into The Host's mind, the different conversations drifting in and out of his narrations faster then The Host could ever dream of saying them and, therefore, causing The Host to develop a massive headache at the front of his skull. At this point, the only thing that was preventing The Host from walking out of the room and hiding himself away in the attic once more was the fact that Dr. Iplier was currently getting him food from the kitchen and had kindly asked The Host to save him a seat… In normal circumstances, The Host wouldn't have risked his sanity for someone he barely knew, but… it was Dr. Edward Iplier.

How was he supposed to say no to him?

It wasn't like The Host was stranger to uncomfortable situations. He HAD lived with The Author for nearly _eighty_ _years_ after all. The problem was that all of the entities currently in Markiplier Manor had such _distinct_ personalities and _yet_ they all sounded the _same_. Hearing one person talk about muscle cars one minute to listening to someone else talk about child trafficking the next was jarring and disorienting for The Host. Especially because he couldn't actually see the people who were talking without using his sight, which felt like a _very bad_ idea simply because of how much The Host's eye sockets felt like they were on fire at the moment. Silently, The Host prayed that they wouldn't get infected. The one time was plenty enough.

Sighing under his breath, The Host leaned forward and, removing his hands from his pockets, placed his elbows on the table, leaning his head against his now freed hands and muttering his narration lowly under his breath. At this point, The Host would try anything to relieve some of the pressure building inside his skull. It felt like his head was only seconds away from exploding into a bloody mess if he didn't  _ try  _ to do something.

"As The Host continued to ease the ache spreading like a wildfire across his mind through his narration, several more entities entered the dining room directly to the right of The Host. Said entities included, Bingiplier, who had a plate full of pancakes and was trying to engage in a friendly banter with one of the Googlipliers with little success, Scent O'plier, who looked as though he was entirely suspicious of the Manor and of the other men in front of him, and Frank, who was casually eating a donut and haphazardly listening to his police walkie-talkie at the same time," The Host narrated quietly, his mouth hidden from plain sight by his arms. He allowed his sight to paint a picture of the room and entities in front of him, allowing The Host to rest his sight and simply immerse himself in the stewing sea of emotions surrounding him. 

The Host wasn't sure if he liked solely relying on his voice to tell him what was going on, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Using his sight for too long could cause damage to his body that would be irreversible. And The Host was not willing to take that risk.

"-he chair scraped roughly against the tarnished floor as Mike stood from his seat and stomped away from King, clearly not happy with the monarch's deduction that a squirrel hunger strike is scarier than a murderous animatronic. Meanwhile, Ed Edgar continued to explain his line of work, which included various forms of the abduction and selling of children, to an unimpressed Wallace and a worryingly intrigued Derek Derekson. Brian and Evan chattered nervously from the corner of the dining room, pulling over two chairs and sitting with their faces towards the wall as the whispered about the probability of Chef Iplier's food being laced with arsenic. The Silver Shepherd was quietly eating his breakfast at the table, his posture resembling one of a dog that had just gotten kicked, across from a moony-eyes Yandere, her face blissful as she ate her pancakes with one hand and shuffled through a pile of photos with her other.

"Dadiplier and Justin seemed to be keeping as far away from the ensuing chaos as possible, the father keeping his son occupied by discussing different movies and books that they both enjoy and giving him several pieces of toast to nibble on. Of course, Captain Falcon and Mark Wing were engaging in a friendly conversation about different types of motors and engines that The Host could not begin to explain even if he tried. Far off, The Host could hear Chef Iplier loudly scolding Opinion, no doubt about an insult that the minion had thrown at the chef's cooking, and threatening to knock him on his ass if he does not get out of 'his' kitchen. The Host finds this a bit melodramatic. The Host can also feel Francis staring at the back of The Host's head, boring daggers into his black-"

The Host paused, his stream of narration cutting off abruptly as the distinct feeling of being watched washed over him in a tidal wave. Frowning deeply as goosebumps slowly covered his arms, The Host contemplated his options, trying not to move an inch as his mind began to race. Should he continue to narrate and figure out what the surgeon was thinking? Should he turn and flash his sight just to take a glance at what Francis' expression was? Should he just stay quiet and wait until the surgeon moved on before continuing? The Host was honestly stumped on what to do, his heart rating beginning to accelerate as he slowly began to feel more and more like a caged animal. It didn't help that The Host hardly knew anything about Francis, since The Host got a burning feeling in the depths of his eye sockets everytime he tried to narrate about him. That was how The Host had known that Francis had been friends with The Author; Only Alexander could make The Host's eyes burn with fear and rage whenever he was nearby.

Gritting his teeth and inhaling sharply, The Host raised his head from his hands and rolled his shoulders back a few times, stretching his body from the uncomfortable position it had been in for the last five minutes. As the ice slowly thawed from within his veins, The Host decided to just keep narrating what was happening instead of directly looking at Francis. The less obvious he was about it, the better The Host be in the long run. "-s The Host's heart rate slowed to a relatively healthy rate, The Host continued to narrate about all the entities that surrounded him, his stomach growling loudly as he wondered aloud where the handsome Dr. Iplier had run off to. The doctor's presence would be greatly appreciated by The spooked Host right about now-"

"I see you saved me a seat." 

The Host startled at the sound of someone's voice next to his ear, nearly giving himself whiplash as he turned towards the direction of the voice with a muffled squeak on his lips. Crossing his hands across his chest in indignation, The Host sourly replied, "It is not polite to startle a blind man, whoever you are. You could have given The Host a heart attack."

"If I were going to scare you, I would do it when you could actually see me. It's much more fun that way. Plus, you have no one to blame but yourself when you start to cry."

"Oh ha ha. The Host is in stitches." Pausing for a moment as a sliver of fear wedged its way into The Host's stomach, The Host tightened his arms around himself and asked sternly, "Who is The Host speaking to, if he may so kindly ask?"

Silence. 

But not the good kind of silence.

The Host's stomach dropped.

"I'm… a doctor?" the man replied almost uncertainly, The Host gripping his forearms so tightly that he could feel his nails through the thick fabric of his jacket, "Well…  _ almost  _ a doctor, if I'm being honest."

"Ah."

"Would've gotten my Doctorate, but…"

Silence again, the ambient chatter keeping The Host's nerves from completely fraying as he was constantly reminded that he wouldn't be attacked with so many people around.

Mustering up his courage, The Host sat up straight and replied coldly, "That is unfortunate for you-" the name he didn't want to hear appeared in his mind and it took all of The Host's willpower to not just get up or shout for someone to come rescue him, " _ Francis _ , but The Host hardly sees why the surgeon needs to speak with him at this moment. Considering what limited knowledge The Host knows about the surgeon, The Host can easily deduce that Francis and he are not supposed to be friendly towards each other."

"Well,  _ The Host _ is abso-fucking-lutely right then. We  _ aren't  _ supposed to be friends." It was hard to miss the threat lurking under the surgeon's words. The Host furrowed his brows and tried to remain strong under the piercing, nearly  _ scalding  _ gaze of Francis, his jaw clenched tight as he looked in the general direction of the surgeon. Francis made an annoyed noise at the back of his throat as The Host dropped his hands to his sides, The Host trying to keep his expression emotionless as he felt Francis lean in closer. The overwhelming smell of blood and lavender collided with The Host's nose as the surgeon hissed menacingly, "Trust me when I say that I don't want to be anywhere near  _ you _ . Stay the  _ fuck  _ outta my way and I'll stay the fuck out of yours. Believe me, you don't want to _ piss me off _ . Are we absolutely clear?"

"Crystal."

" _ Good _ ."

And with that, The Host felt Francis back out of his personal space and briskly walk towards the exit to the dining room, The Host frowning deeply as he contemplated whether or not to continue to narrate the other entities or to just exit the crowded room all together. Evidently, he had already pissed one of the others off without even meaning too (though The Host internally suspected that Francis was merely taking his anger towards The Author out on The Host rather then it being that The Host had done something to offend the surgeon) and The Host definitely didn't feel like waiting around for someone else to find fault in something he had done intentionally or unintentionally. Sighing lightly as a small flicker of embarrassment coursed under his skin, The Host turned back to the table and rested his arms on the wooden surface, a slow mumble of words beginning to froth at the tip of his tongue.

"After the unfortunate altercation with the surgeon, The Host tried to slow his coasting thoughts by thinking of something he immensely enjoyed: writing. Currently, The Host had been editing and re-reading three of his previously written mystery novels, a fourth one slowly but surely being written in The Host's spare time. However, lately The Host has been thinking of trying his hand in romance-"

"What was that about romance? Sounds interesting, whatever it is."

The Host snapped his head sharply in the direction of the new voice, his words clipped and short as he inquired suspiciously, "To whom is The Host speaking to now?"

"...Uh, Dr. Iplier? I come bearing gifts of the maple syrup and butter variety."

The Host chuckled lightly under his breath as he ducked his head, the wonderful smell of delicious pancakes distracting him as a tiny voice whispered a warning at the back of his mind. "Prove it," he challenged after a moment, raising his head to look at what he presumed was the face of the man he had been wishing to see nearly three minutes ago. 

Key word was  _ presumed _ .

The man gave a snort from above him, the plates in his hands rattling loudly as he placed them on the table with a clank. The Host could clearly hear the exasperation in his voice as he replied, "I don't know what the Hell this is all about, Isaac, but what I DO know is that I'm going to win our little bet." The Host cautiously began to let his guard drop at the doctor's words, the friendly banter he had shared with Dr. Iplier concerning their wager making him feel more in control of what was going on around him even with one of his senses impaired.

"No matter what?"

"Mhmm."

"Even if it means you'd have to kill me?"

The question felt heavier in the warming air then it should have. But The Host had to ask it. It would've been stupid of him not to.

The chair next to The Host scratched like nails on a chalkboard across the dirty, trash-covered floor as Dr. Iplier pulled it out from the table, the doctor whistling lowly as he seemed to begin to eat his own breakfast of pancakes. "I would let you win if I had to kill you," Dr. Iplier grumbled in between bites, The Host reaching out a hand to grab at the other plate the doctor had brought out just for him as a warm, secure feeling began to pool in his stomach, "Don't get too excited. I'm a doctor. It's not like I have a choice. The Hippocratic Oath literally states I can't hurt another person  _ ever _ ."

Pulling his plate in front of him, The Host shook his head stubbornly as he picked up his utensils and began cutting up the pancakes into tiny squares that could be easily chewed. Stabbing one of the brown cakes with his fork and raising it slowly to his lips, The Host muttered sullenly, "Dr. Iplier's information is false. To be specific, The Hippocratic Oath states that a doctor or caregiver cannot harm or injury a  _ patient _ ." The Host popped the piece of pancake into his mouth, knowing that he was towing the line between being right and being cruel. He wasn't trying to be an ass, but… "The Host is  _ not _ your patient, Doctor."

"You really think I don't know that?" Dr. Iplier retorted through a mouthful of food, The Host swallowing his own breakfast with a gulp that sounded much too loud to be normal. He truly was treading into dark waters now, wasn't he? 

The Host resolved to stabbing another piece of his pancake unhappily with his fork as he responded sourly, "Well, Dr. Iplier has been helping The Host with his bandages all morning. That is something a doctor would do for his patients, yes?"

"Or, you know, I was just scared you were going to _bleed out_ when blood started to ooze out of your fucking eyeballs not once, but _twice_. I don't know about you, but normally when I see someone on the brink of _death_ I help them anyway I can. Regardless of if I happen to be their doctor or not," Dr. Iplier snapped, The Host feeling a small ball of anger form in the center of his chest as he pulled the pancake off his fork with his teeth and swallowed it whole. He knew deep down that he had started this argument, but The Host refused to acknowledge that kernel of truth coming from his conscious as one of his hands balled into a fist and the other curled around his fork in a scarily tight grip.

The Host hated the feeling of his body going into Fight-Or-Flight mode, but there was really nothing he could do to stop it. Confrontation had  _ always _ been an effective trigger for that particular emotion. It was simply just one more thing to blame The Author for.

"The Host did not ask for Dr. Iplier's help once," The Host mumbled sternly, the hand holding his fork growing heavier with each accusatory word that flew from his mouth. His thoughts were becoming muddled, his mind focusing on the previous negative encounter with Francis instead of on all the good conversations The Host had had with Dr. Iplier during the previous morning. It was as if the butterflies that had been fluttering happily through his stomach under the moonlight had been effectively set on fire and were either burned to a crisp or were flying manically to the sides of his belly in an attempt to put out the flames. It took all The Host's willpower to not stand from his creaky seat and yell in agony or punch someone square in the face with rage. That or to run. Because he was  _ really good  _ at running.

The Host supposed Fight-Or-Flight did have some uses besides being a major pain in the ass after all.

"This is a stupid conversation." The Host hadn't been really listening to whatever the doctor in front of him had been saying, but for whatever reason that sentence stuck out to him. It was as if Dr. Iplier wasn't aware of the inner turmoil that The Host was currently going through, as if he couldn't see right through his emotions like The Host thought he could. But… how could the doctor not?! The Host's mind was  _ screeching _ , the narrations bottled up in his brain pounding against the side of the pink organ much louder then any of the other din that was occuring in the dining room at the time. In fact, The Host couldn't hear any of the thirty-whatever entities that surrounded him and Dr. Iplier at all. It was just his voice, Dr. Iplier's snide remarks, and the never ending cursing rattling through his skull.

Vaguely The Host recognized that he was on the verge of having a panic attack, something that hadn't happened in quite a long time… not since The Author- 

"STOP," The Host snapped loudly, his hand letting go of his fork and allowing it to drop to the practically full plate of pancakes beneath it with a loud clatter. Across from him, The Host could hear the doctor shift uncomfortably in his seat, but he couldn't give less of a fuck at the moment. The Host KNEW that this would happen! As soon as Francis had walked through the doors of the Manor last night, The Host had  _ known _ that he was bad news and had promised himself he would stay away from him. It had taken him less then a day to break that promise to himself, at the expense of his own sanity and his friendship with Dr. Iplier no less. Breathing out angrily through his nose, The Host shoved his plate across the wooden table with a scratching noise before curtly muttering as he roughly pushed his chair backwards, "Please excuse The Host for a moment, Doctor." The only way to deal with his frustration and anger was to go to a secluded area and narrate it out of his body. And, to do that, he had to be somewhere private, somewhere in which no would bother him and make him narrate their thoughts and movements just by being in his presence. So, it was back to the attic for The Host.

Slowly but surely the sound and narration of the other entities' conversations and actions reappeared in The Host's ears and mind, the silence he had found so suffocating two minutes ago finally lifting off his shoulders as he stood from his seat, brushing a hand down the front of his trench coat to get off any pancake crumbs, and turned to walk briskly to the door. Though his burning mind protested against it, The Host allowed his sight to appear once more, momentarily squinting his eyes at the surprising brightness coming from the small chandelier that hung in the middle of the secluded and heavily curtained dining room. He would have to go around Bing and Ed to get to the exit and to walk through it, which would be easier if Miles hadn't just walked in and started to talk up an excuse as to why he didn't show up to Bimothy's meeting last night. Both he and Bing were becoming animated in their speech as well, waving their arms around and speaking lou-

As he made a step forward, The Host felt a cool hand grab his elbow and gently keep him in place, The Host feeling ice skip through his veins as he imagined that Francis ( _ or The Author _ , he shuddered) was behind him. It was an irrational fear and yet, a cold serpent made of poison still slipped nearly silently into his stomach as the hand tightened just slightly. After another deep breath in an attempt to not go into cardiac arrest, The Host turned on his heel slowly as he pressed his lips into a thin expressionless line, his hands turned to white fists as he did so.

What he saw next was and wasn't what he had expected. As it unsurprisingly turned out, it was Dr. Iplier that was holding tightly to his arm, The Host's anxiety melting like snow in the spring as he allowed his vision to blacken and fade at the edges with a frown. He looked at the hand holding his arm in place and then took a look at the doctor's face, trying to indicate without words that he did not like it when Dr. Iplier just  _ grabbed him  _ like that. He was a  _ doctor _ . He should know  _ better  _ then to just touch someone without their consent. Dr. Iplier seemed to get the hint, his face morphing from one of annoyance to one of apology in a matter of seconds as he released The Host's arm almost like it burned him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just grabbed you like that," Dr. Iplier apologized sincerely, his face a mask of concern as The Host tried not to think about the cool imprints now embedded on his elbow and tried not to whimper in pain as he forced his sight to remain in his eyes. Sighing deeply as he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, the doctor swore under his breath and asked seriously, "God, that was totally inappropriate on my part. Are you okay?"

Never in his whole life did The Host have a panic attack vanish so quickly with just the muttering of three, simple words. It was, quite honestly, miraculous. 

"...The Host is fine," The Host replied shakily, his sight focusing intensely on the way the doctor was studying his face with a narrowed expression, almost as if he didn't believe The Host in the slightest. Unclenching his hands and shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, his fingers brushing lightly over the page of  Gatsby he had taken, The Host began to feel the beginnings of blood pooling at the corners of his eyes as he firmly continued with a slight chuckle, "The Host is  _ fine _ ."

Dr. Iplier pulled a face as he leaned back in his chair and picked up his fork to shove another piece of pancake into his mouth aggressively. "Yeah, sure," he grumbled once he had swallowed his food, wiping his sticky hands down the front his coat with a grimace before placing his fork back onto his plate. His expression was thoughtful as he looked back at The Host, his mouth pursed and his knee jumpy as he seemed to mentally check over The Host's entire stature for problems or imperfections. A particularly obnoxious narration banged into the side of The Host's mind over and over again the longer Dr. Iplier stared at him and The Host thanked his lucky stars that he had self control because if he didn't… Crap, was he blushing again?

The Host was beginning to feel like his emotions had been all over the place so far that day. He was getting quite sick of it.

The doctor only took a few more moments to stare at The Host before he averted his gaze and, clearing his throat, said quietly, "If you ever need to talk to anyone, I am always willing to listen, okay? And please let me know if I do something that makes you uncomfortable so that I'm not such a dumbass in the future."

A single drop of blood rolled down the The Host's cheek, Dr. Iplier zoning in on it like a hawk as if to avoid The Host's face, as The Host stepped forward and carefully leaned back, falling back into his chair with a soft thud. "The Host will," The Host replied sullenly, the tiniest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth as he reached a hand up to brush away the runaway tear before it dropped messily onto his tan trench coat. It wouldn't have been the first time and blood was a  _ bitch  _ to get out of clothing. As he lowered his hand from his tanned cheek, The Host felt his gaze move almost magnetically back to Dr. Iplier's face, the blackened edges of his vision doing nothing to hide the soft expression the doctor was supplying him as he leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs.

And suddenly, it was like Dr. Edward Iplier had poured gasoline over the flaming butterflies pounding into the sides of The Host's ribcage.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobic Language

"Oh Jesus, here we go," Dr. Iplier muttered into The Host's ear, The Host himself priding himself on only slightly blushing at how close the two of them were, "You ready for the shit storm to hit?"

Nodding with a small smile, The Host placed both of his hands on top of his thighs and leaned back in his chair, his head tilting towards the door as he continued to listen to the low conversation happening on the other side. Though it was almost impossible to tell who the two entities were simply because of how quiet their conversation was and how similar all the entities sounded, The Host could make a pretty good guess on who lay beyond the hallway door. And it was about goddamn time that they woke up. It was nearly a quarter to eleven, for fucks sake. "Oh yes," The Host replied lowly, turning his attention away from the voices beyond the door and back to the doctor to his left with a smirk. One hand reached out to push Dr. Iplier lightly in the shoulder as he continued bravely, "We still haven't discussed what we are going to do with your  _ pride  _ when The Host wins the bet."

"Don't worry about things that aren't going to happen. It's not good for your health."

The Host snickered as he turned away from Dr. Iplier's determined voice and retorted, "You didn't answer my question,  _ Edward _ ."

The Host could sense the restlessness of the entities that surrounded him, all of them either sitting or standing around the dining room table as they talked lowly to each other to pass the time. Several of the men that sat near the entrance, especially the fighter pilot Wing, kept shooting glances at the swinging door behind them, no doubt listening carefully to the riveting conversation occurring on the other side of the thin piece of wood. It was as if the entire room was waiting for a bomb to explode… which they kinda were if The Host's internal narrations were anything to go by. Silently he hoped that nobody would be flayed alive, but from what he knew about their mysterious demonic host… a skinning could definitely be on the table that morning.

Speaking of which, where the Hell  _ was  _ Darkiplier? Wasn't he supposed to be in charge of these meetings? The last time The Host had seen him was late last night when the demon had entered the Manor with a tight expression that shined with concern or irritability. That along with his absence to the current meeting were not good signs, that much was for sure.

"I don't think I  _ need  _ to answer your question,  _ Isaac _ ," Dr. Iplier replied under his breath, the doctor shifting closer to The Host and knocking his knee against The Host's own with chuckle, "It's not like you could MAKE ME or whatever…"

"Oh really, Doctor? You truly think that The Host couldn't-"

The slamming of the hallway door startled The Host from his narrative, his sight simultaneously slamming into his vision painfully as several of the other entities in the room jumped at the sound of splintering wood and rambunctious laughter. Even Dr. Iplier, the normally cool headed ( _ handsome _ , The Host's brain supplied to which he internally groaned) doctor himself, started from the loud noise, his knee jerking once again into The Host's, almost like he was trying to give The Host a heart attack, before pulling away from the blind entity all together. Though the cool spot remained on his leg like brand made of ice, The Host didn't even bother to look. He was too busy gawking at the men that had just entered the dining room, who were too caught up in whatever 'enlightening' conversation they were having to pay the rest of the room any mind.

To be frank, Wilford and Bimothy looked like they had gotten into a fist fight with each other and that was putting it  _ mildly _ . Several purple and blue spots littering the reporter's neck, with one particularly bloody wound appearing right on top of his neck tendon, and Bimothy was sporting a serious limp, having to lean into Wilford with one arm flung over the reporter's shoulder just to walk. Even though they both looked worse for wear, both men sported brilliant smiles as they positively glowed under the dim light of the rusty chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, The Host only imagining what the Hell had gone down last night to warrant such a happy attitude. Well… he didn't have to imagine it. He had fucking  _ heard  _ it. He was pretty sure people in  _ Siberia  _ had heard it.

"Jesus Christ," The Host turned slightly to see Dr. Iplier shake his head with a frown out of the corner of his eye, The Host biting his tongue to prevent himself from laughing aloud at the doctor's brash words. Goodness. The doctor was cute even when he looked like he wanted to throttle someone. 

Nobody moved or spoke as the two men slowly untangled from each other, the white door that had been slammed open and that was now covered in large cracks swinging silently closed behind them as Bimothy pushed his glasses higher up his nose and Wilford gazed down the table with a mischievous glimmer in his eye. The silence that was normally quite enjoyed by The reclusive Host felt out of place as the metaphorical bomb seemed to inch closer and closer to detonation. All it would take was one false word or action and BOOM.

Shifting in his seat so that he could rest his forearms on the table, The Host focused on the pain accumulating in his eye sockets instead of the awkwardness of the situation. All that he could hope was that the reporter and the game show host hadn't rolled  _ directly  _ out of bed this morning… That would just be gross. Luckily, if Bimothy's pristine black suit and Wilford's wet, floppy hair were anything to go by, that was not the case at all. Thank GOD. The Host couldn't handle any more 'wet visions' after last night… especially next to Dr. Iplier. The thought itself almost made The Host flush a bright crimson and curl into himself as a faint rush of embarrassment coursed under his skin.

He really was going to need to get this crush under control, wasn't he?

Another moment of silence passed before it was shattered like a window pane, Wilford leaning over to whisper something to Bimothy with a giggle before clapping his hands together and exclaiming excitedly to the table, "NO MORE  _ LOLLYGAGGING _ , gentlemen!! It's TIME to  _ discuss _ how to gain control of our little pet  _ Markimoo _ !" The reporter practically skipped away from the door as he hummed a strange ditty that The Host didn't recognize under his breath, his crazed eyes flashing across each of the entities faces at a lightning fast pace before he planted his feet at the head of the dining table. Smiling widely, Wilford twisted the end of his magenta mustache with one hand and raised his other to his ear as he continued, "I  _ suppose _ we should start by THROWING all your  _ lovely  _ suggestions out there! I'm CERTAINLY  _ all _ ears, whomever wants to go first!"

Muttering filled the cramped dining room immediately, The Host listening quietly to the conversations swirling around him as he dug his nails into the top of his hand to distract him from the fire in his eye sockets. He knew that he could just as easily let his sight go and return to the darkness that normally surrounded him, but the thrumming of his narrations assured him not to. Something important was bound to happen with so many of the entities together in one setting. "Where's Dark?" someone shouted from The Host's left, his voice carrying a sentiment of impatience along with a southern drawl. How long ago had The Host been told the meeting was going to occur? Two hours? Three?

Several other entities agreed with who The Host eventually discovered was Derek Derekson, the room growing even louder as Bimothy made his way to the head of the table to stand beside Wilford with an obviously over exaggerated smile meant to charm people rather then calm them. "Dark's not here right now, unfortunately," Bim explained cheerfully, his smile morphing into a smirk as he clasped his hands in front of him and threw Wilford a 'Look', "But hopefully he'll be able to join us eventually. You know how demons are; Always running off to do god-knows-what with god-knows-who." 

The Host crossed his ankles under his chair as the mummers in the room settled down once more, Derek grumbling something about 'bad work ethics' before folding his arms like an angry five year old and clicking his tongue disapprovingly. Beside him, The Host could hear Dr. Iplier muttering something to Dr. Plier, who had been sitting across the table with a concerned expression on his face. A tiny flare of… something The Host dared not to name flamed in The Host's stomach, but he didn't pay it much mind. He was far too focused on the stabbing feeling in his eye sockets and the jackhammer of his narration against the inside of his skull. Breathing in deeply, The Host bowed his head and concentrated on not throwing up as wave after wave of narration swam into his mind and begged him to be released through his speech or through a quill and paper.

"Uh… what kind of suggestions are you looking for, dude?"

"Any kind, Bing! Any kind that you can think of!" Bim's voice was a pleasant distraction for The Host, the game show host's quick answers and delightfully smooth commentary allowing The Host to not think of all the actions he could and SHOULD be narrating. It didn't really distract from the dark pool of blood that was slowly forming from the rivers running down his cheeks from his eye sockets, but that wasn't the point. All The Host could hope was that Dr. Iplier wouldn't notice because if he did… The Host would surely die from embarrassment. It will be the third time he's had to change his bandages in _one_ _day_. He usually didn't bleed through one set of bandages after _three months_.

"Oh. Okay."

"...do you have a suggestion you'd like to share, Bing?"

The Host raised his head just enough to glance at the flustered android standing near the entrance of the room, the orange LEDs placed inside his cheeks glowing magnificently as he seemed to realize that the entire room was waiting for his answer. "Nah, dude. Just askin' for if I think of something in the future," Bing replied after a thoughtful moment, an uneasy smile spreading across his synthetic features before he laughed uncomfortably and began to engage the floor in a staring contest.

A snicker prompted The Host to glance away from the now silent Bing and towards the Google IRLs standing in the back corner of the room, Google Green looking far too much like a cat that had eaten the canary and gotten away with it while his counterparts glared at Bing with a mixture of disgust and indignation flickering across their features. An uncomfortable feeling filled the pit of The Host's churning stomach as he turned his attention back to the table in front of him. "Come now,  _ Bing _ ! I'm SURE you are just BRIMMING with AMAZING ideas because of that weird  _ machine brain _ of yours!" Wilford goaded as he placed his hands onto the table and leaned forward, his tone light and full of cotton candy as he tried to prompt an actual response from the younger android.

"Let him be, Warfy. He obviously doesn't want to share," Bim sighed over dramatically, brushing a few strands of his greasy, glittery hair out of his eyes with a hand before extending his other hand towards the table and asking hopefully, "Someone else wanna jump in or do I have to start calling on people?"

"I have a question, actually."

The Host winced. His narrations had already supplied him this argument nearly twenty minutes ago and The Host had been hoping that being professional and creating a "working" plan would distract from the rivalry in the room. Sadly, it seemed that he was mistaken. Sitting up slowly, The Host muffled his cries of pain with his shoulder as he shifted his now pulsating vision towards the game show host, a wane smile on his lips, and then towards Scent O'plier, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table with a deep seated frown carved into his face.

"Why the Hell did the meeting start so late?" Scent practically snarled as he leaned forward in his seat, his pink button down glimmering dangerously in the chandelier's light as he glared between a confused Wilford Warfstache and a tight lipped Bimothy Trimmer.

"I'm so sorry, I'm not  _ asking for questions right now,  _ Scent. Now, if you have a  _ suggestion- _ "

"-was it because you were too busy sucking off a psychopath to actually remember that you invited all of us over last night-"

"-then please feel free to share with the group." Bim's eyes glinted angrily as he watched Scent stand from his seat with a huff, The Host being able to easily compare the game show host's demeanor to one of an animal stalking its prey. It was… unnerving to say the least. Wilford pushed himself off the table and opened his mouth to say something to Scent, a chuckle just barely dangling from his lips, but Bim beat him to the punch, the game show host crossing his arms against his chest and asking in a sickly sweet tone, "Do you even have enough intelligent thought to think of a suggestion, Scent? Or are you just going flutter your eyelashes to get someone with more then two brain cells to think of a suggestion for you?"

Scent scowled as he stomped closer to the front of the room, The Host watching the fuming presence pass by his chair as Scent spat, "Fuck you, Trimmer. Unlike some, I actually have a  _ stable job _ that I have to go to every day. So sorry that I want to know when the fucking meeting starts and ends so I don't get fired."

Bimothy's laugh was ugly and mean, a hard contrast to the twinkling giggle The Host had heard when he had first met the game show host, as he reached out one hand to stable himself on Wilford's shoulder and retorted spitefully, "Allowing old ladies to fuck you for a few bucks is  _ not  _ a job, honey. That's just called being a whore."

Somebody at the table whistled loudly as Bim ran his tongue over the front of his teeth with a grin, the game show host letting go of Wilford's shoulder to lean his hip against the side of the table casually as The Host sat up straight so that he could see both Scent and Bim at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye, The Host could see Dr. Iplier shake his head and use his hands to rub circles into his temples in a somewhat soothing gesture. At that moment, with literal streams of blood running down his face and onto his jacket while shocks of pain washed through his entire body, The Host selfishly wished that Dr. Iplier's skillful hands would run across  _ his  _ temples and soothe  _ his  _ currently jackknifing narrations. The Host could dream, couldn't he.

" _ Commercials _ , you fucking cunt. My  _ job _ is to make commercials for a  _ perfume company _ . Don't talk shit about things that you don't know anything about."

"What's your wife's name? Margie? With a name like that, she's gotta be  _ at least  _ seventy. Tell me honestly… is fucking someone who could be your grandmother  _ worth _ the ten grand in inheritance money?"

"That's rich coming from someone who can't go a week without having a dick up his ass."

"What can I say? I need my protein. At least I can say that my partners are  _ fresh _ ."

"At least I can say that I'm not a faggot who gets off to the physical harm of other people."

" _ Wow _ . 2017 and we're still using queer slurs, huh? Your wife must be so proud!"

"Say one more thing about my goddamn wife, I DARE you."

Scent and Bimothy were properly at each other's throats, the sugar baby looking about two seconds away from punching the smiling game show host in his gleaming teeth, when Wilford, his face unusually stern, thankfully stepped in between the two entities, The Host breathing out a sigh of relief from the edge of his seat. The Host could tell from the tense bodies that sat around him that the other entities at the table were just as happy for the reporter's intervention as he was. " _ Now, now _ ," Wilford's tone matched the seriousness lurking behind his crazed eyes, "Let's all BEHAVE ourselves, shall we? No need to be CALLING each other such  _ horrible  _ names when there is still SO MUCH to get DONE!" Slinging an arm over Bimothy's shoulder to gently pull him away from Scent, the reporter paused for a second as if he were trying to remember what to say before turning towards the table and slurring quietly, "We don't want to leave ALL the work to  _ Darky _ , now do we?"

"Whatever," Scent snapped before he turned on his heel with a huff and walked towards the door leading out of the room, his eyes icy cold as he slammed open the door, "I'm going home." He swiveled around to point a painted finger at Bim, who simply smiled amusingly from under Wilford's arm, and growled, "Don't ever talk to me again."

And then he was gone.

"Wouldn't dream of it!" The game show host called towards the swinging door with a roll of his eyes, The Host continuing to feel crimson rubies drip through his once pure bandages and onto his coat as he finally,  _ finally  _ let his sight soundlessly slip from his vision with a noise akin to a quiet whimper. He had seen all that he needed to see, he was sure. Plus his head felt like it was moments away from exploding, so The Host deduced that a few more minutes of entertainment was not worth the risk of a permanent and life threatening injury. Almost without realizing, The Host began to quietly (and by quietly, The Host was practically just  _ mouthing  _ the words) narrate his surroundings, his head immediately feeling less like a soda can in a freezer and far less achy then it had been for the past five minutes.

"WELL then!" Wilford's excited words made The Host jump lightly in his seat, the blind man still getting used to not being able to see, "Now that THAT'S outta the way, let us CONTINUE where we left off! Who's gotta BRILLIANT idea they wanna SHARE!" Silence filled the room again, but this silence felt alright to The Host. It was the type of silence that occurred when no one had anything to say or when everyone was too afraid to say something, The Host's senses going haywire as the electric energy of the fight slowly dissipating from the dining room. His mumbled narrations continued to stream into the open air, The Host so focused on getting all the cooped up emotions and thoughts that had been trapped in his mind out into the broad daylight that he  _ nearly _ missed Wilford calling his name.

Nearly.

"HOSTY! You look like you have something  _ intelligent  _ to say, old chap! Come now! Share your THOUGHTS with us!"

The Host didn't need to see to know that all of the entities were looking at him. He could feel their burning stares on every part of his body and hear their movements on his tongue. The wetness of the blood on his face felt cold compared to the fire burning his skin. A slightly uncomfortable feeling settled in The Host's chest as he sat up straight and removed his arms from the table, dropping his hands into his lap without a sound as a gasp resounded from the beautiful doctor beside him. The Host smiled faintly as he brushed at one rivers of blood flowing down his cheeks.

"Fucking Christ, Host! What the shit happened to you!"

Instead of answering Dr. Iplier's astonished question, the doctor's cold, spearmint scented hands coming up to The Host's face to tilt it sharply towards him, The Host simply shrugged and replied nonchalantly, "The Host believes that Dr. Iplier has won the bet. This meeting has, thus far, been a shit storm."


	7. Chapter 7

Needless to say, The Host did indeed owe Dr. Iplier twenty dollars once the meeting  _ finally  _ concluded around one o'clock pm. Luckily for The Host, the doctor was too busy unwrapping the soiled bandages around The Host's head and muttering obscenities under his breath to remember about The Host's wager. Though, the longer that The Host felt Dr. Iplier's hands pull roughly at the white cloth around his head along with the severe intensity of his words, the more The Host suspected that he wasn't as lucky as he originally thought. 

"Three times! Really?!" Dr. Iplier hissed under his breath as he tucked harshly at a particularly stubborn piece of cloth stuck directly across The Host's eye sockets, the dried puddles of blood making it exceedingly more difficult to remove the bandages. Biting the inside of his cheek to muffle the sound of pain threatening to crawl out of his throat, The Host merely nodded weakly and focused on the feeling of the midday sunlight on his body to distract himself from his tearing skin. After the meeting had concluded only three minutes ago, Dr. Iplier had grabbed The Host's hand and dragged him back to the living room so he could examine The Host's newest injuries under a natural light. Which was completely fine. Anywhere far away from the clatter and chatter of the dining room was exactly where The Host wanted to be. 

Sighing lightly as Dr. Iplier pulled his hands away from his face, The Host paused his steady stream of internal and external narration to respond stiffly, "The Host is not  _ trying  _ to bleed through his bandages, Doctor. He simply gets overwhelmed with large groups of people."

Hearing a huff of irritation come from Dr. Iplier's general direction, the sound of two jars clicking together resounding through the tenseness of the room, The Host folded his hands tightly in his lap and frowned, his eye sockets feeling cold and exposed to the thickening air. "I know you weren't  _ trying  _ to bleed," the doctor began after a moment, the couch beside The Host dipping slightly as the doctor shifted closer and pressed his now gel covered fingers to The Host's wounds, "But that doesn't change the fact that every time you do, I have a mini heart attack."

The coolness of the medicine (The Host hoped and assumed) Dr. Iplier was placing on his face felt gross, almost like peach flavored honey was being dripped into his skull and all around the tender outside of his eye sockets. Unlinking his fingers, The Host swiped at the doctor's gel handed and growled, "The Host doesn't want the medicine Dr. Iplier is putting on his face."

"It'll help your wounds heal and prevent them from bleeding so much in the future. Trust me, this'll be-"

The Host grabbed Dr. Iplier's forearm before he could utter another word, The Host's mouth pressed into a firm line as he tried to keep the shaking in his arm under control. "As the doctor continued to ramble, The Host decided to take matters into his own hands and stop Dr. Iplier from applying the gel himself," The Host narrated dryly, the doctor in his grasp twisting his arm slowly to signify that he wanted to be let go of. But… The Host intentionally ignored the social cue. And the guilt lasted only about three seconds before The Host continued to narrate almost giddily, "And though Dr. Iplier had a scowl adorning his lips and was seconds away from cursing The Host out, the blind man still-"

"Host-"

"Did not-"

"HOST-"

"Let-"

"Isaac, for Christ's sake-"

"GO."

With the utterance of his final word, The Host threw Dr. Iplier's hand away from him, a smile slowly spreading across his face as blood drip, drip,  _ dripped  _ methodically out of his eyes and down his chin. He could hear Dr. Iplier breathing heavily next to him, his now mumbling narrations providing him the image of the doctor looking at The Host with a mixture of shock, disgust, and… fear lingering on his face.

Goodness.

It seems that The Host has caused fear to grow it's morbid flowers in someone else for once.

How refreshing… wait what?

WHAT?

The sun passed behind a cloud in an almost ironic fashion as The Host felt his heart seize in his throat. What was that? WHAT WAS THAT?! Had he really just  _ enjoyed _ terrorizing someone? And not just any someone… The Host had apparently decided somewhere in his obviously  _ fucked up  _ mind to threaten and physically manipulate the man that he had a crush on! Dr. Iplier hadn't even done anything; he was simply trying to help The Host with his bandages like he had before!

This… this was bad. This was very, VERY bad. 

And what was even worse was that even though The Host's mind knew he had to apologize for his misconduct, his heart didn't really want to. 

And that was what tore him up inside.

"Th- The Host apologizes," The Host stuttered quietly, scooching backwards on the couch with his disgusting hands shoved deep into his coat pockets to try to put as much space between him and the doctor as possible. He didn't even want to  _ tempt  _ himself with the possibility of reaching out and touching the smooth skin of Dr. Iplier again. It was too risky because The Host didn't know what the Hell had just happened to him and he didn't want to risk it happening again. Frankly, The Host didn't want their friendship to end because he was a psychopath… the 'like The Author' went un-said, but not unnoticed. "The Host… can finish putting on his bandages by himself... Edward."

The use of his first name seemed to trigger something in the doctor, The Host physically sensing the doctor collect himself sharply as he cleared his throat and began to put the cover back onto the glass jar that contained the medicine. The overwhelming smell of peaches still permeated The Host's nose as The Host reached up to wipe away the goopy substance with the palm of his hand. His wound stung at the contact, but feeling a few moments of burning pain was better then smelling like The Author for the rest of the day. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea," Dr. Iplier's voice sounded strained as The Host wiped his sticky hand onto the couch, not really caring since the piece of furniture was so old anyway. However, when the doctor spoke after clearing his throat again, his voice had hardened significantly, each word feeling like a stab wound in The Host's gut, "I don't know what that was. But if you even  _ think _ about touching me like that again, I  _ will  _ call the police. Got it?"

Instead of answering, The Host chose to just nod numbly, his mind screaming at him to do something,  _ anything _ to show the doctor how truly sorry he was. That couldn't have been him… it COULDN'T have been. Sure, The Host had had violent daydreams in the past, but he would never  _ act _ on them… right? Obviously that statement was a lie if the past two minutes had taught The Host anything. Jesus Christ! What the fuck was happening to him!? The feeling of something soft being placed on his lap brought The Host tumbling out of his spiraling thoughts, one of his hands reaching out tentatively to feel the bundle of bandages Dr. Iplier had been planning to use on The Host's eye sockets. "The Host thanks the doctor," The Host mumbled as his fingers played with the seam of the bandages and slowly unraveled the tightly bound cloth.

"Do you know how to put them on?" 

The clinical tone Dr. Iplier's voice had taken on made The Host's heart sink all the way to the pit of his stomach. "The Host has been applying new bandages to himself for a very long time," The Host replied uneasily, his hands finishing their task of unraveling the bandages and reaching up to begin twisting them around his head. 

Dr. Iplier made a quick noise of approval before the room fell silent again, The Host trying to concentrate on how to properly bind his eye sockets and not on how much of a royal fuck up he was. After a beat, Dr. Iplier sighed, shifting ever so slightly  _ away _ from The Host as he grumbled, "Good, because I have to go to work and I can't stay here to make sure you apply the bandages correctly." The weight on the other side of the couch lifted as the doctor stood up, The Host feeling a pang of loss echo in his chest as Dr. Iplier continued to snark under his breath, "And really I should've been there ten minutes ago, but you know-"

The sound of the kitchen door opening seemingly startled both The Host and Dr. Iplier, the doctor halting his sentence to stare at the intruder and The Host pausing his tying to tilt his head towards the door curiously. "Hey Ed? Someone fell down the stairs and is talking all sorts of crazy shit about broken bones and the works right now. Could you do all of us with working ears a solid and go check on him real quick?" A snort of laughter erupted from Dr. Iplier's nose, the doctor's footsteps slowly walking past The quiet Host and towards whoever was standing in the doorway as The Host resumed his tying somewhat anxiously.  _ Ed? _

"I'm not the only doctor in the Manor, you know. Why don't you go check on him yourself, Mister Psychiatrist?" Dr. Iplier replied playful as The Host finished winding the cloth about his head, his nimble fingers beginning to tie the ends together to keep the soft cloth from sliding down his face whenever he moved. Leaning back so that his back was flush against the standing couch cushions, The Host listened to the conversation unfolding across the room with a growing sense of uneasy rumbling through his entire body.

"I would, but you know how I get around blood."

"Eesh. That bad, huh?"

"Not as bad as that one kid who got his head chopped off by a frisbee, but yeah. It's pretty bad."

Dr. Iplier whistled lowly before replying reluctantly, "I have to go, unfortunately. If I don't get to the hospital for my shift, Johnson will fucking have my head." He paused for a second, The Host momentarily thinking that Dr. Iplier had walked out the door and into the kitchen before continuing with a slight tease in his voice, "I'm sure that a smart guy like you can figure something out. It's not like it's rocket science."

The Host shuddered as Dr. Plier (his narrations supplied him) giggled under his breath and retorted, "It might as well be! I have no experience with the human body other then with the brain. All those bones and muscles and shit… that's above my pay grade."

"You and I both know that you have  _ some  _ experience with the human body, Charlie~"

And although the two doctors busted out laughing at Dr. Iplier's promiscuous joke, The Host felt nothing but his blood freezing in his veins. 

"No, but really. I have to go. It was good seeing you, Charles!" And then, Dr. Iplier was gone, his spearmint scent lingering in the air and swirling around The Host almost tauntingly as the blind man slowly got feeling back in his arms and legs. Breathing in and out very slowly, counting to four in between each inhale and exhale, The Host tried very hard not to panic as nervous narrations fell from his lips haphazardly. He wasn't even aware of what he was  _ saying _ . All The Host knew was that he needed to clear his mind and focus on staying in the present moment. Not worrying about the future; not fretting about the past. Just focusing on being in the now…

"Hello Host," The Host flinched as he turned his head towards Dr. Plier and allowed his sight to creep into his eye sockets at a slow pace. He didn't want to risk bleeding when he had  _ just changed the bandages _ …  _ again _ . The doctor was standing calmly in the doorway, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as his other hung limply by his side. He was smiling gently, his brown eyes positively  _ glowing _ with warmth, as he continued cheerfully, "Are you feeling any better then you were before? The way you were croaking in pain when Eddie took you out of the dining room sounded pretty painful."

"The Host is feeling much better now, Doctor," The Host responded tiredly as he forced his sight out of his eyes to prevent any possible bleeding from happening, "The Host is also very tired, so if it isn't too much of a bother-"

"Right, right," Dr. Plier interrupted apologetically, The Host listening as the doctor shifted from foot to foot before shuffling back to the kitchen door and opening it with a squeak, "Sleeping IS the best way to heal, they say!" The doctor let out a quiet laugh as he stepped through the doorway, calling out just before the white door closed, "Enjoy, Host!"

Click.

There went the door.

The Host groaned loudly as soon as the sound reached his ears, flopping down sideways onto the couch and smashing his face into the cushions as he cursed his bad luck over and over again under his breath. Not only was he a possible serial killer in the making, but his fucking competition was  _ nice _ . 

Like,  _ sugary sweet _ nice.

Which was suspicious in of itself, but The Host wasn't really focusing on the details at the moment. 

Come to think of it, when had The Host started to think so badly about himself just because he wasn't getting the attention that he wanted from Dr. Iplier? Was he REALLY that lonely that he was willingly degrading himself to that level?

What the actual fuck?

Instead of answering any of his own questions, The Host stiffly sat up straight and naturally let his sight return to his senses, The Host watching with a carefully blank face as the sun reappeared from behind the clouds. And, hands resting on his thighs in a relaxed gesture, The Host simply let his mind wander, narrations falling from his lips like rain falling from the sky as the internal war that had been raging since The Host had spoken to Francis earlier that day quieting from a roar to a whisper in a millisecond.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a long time before The Host found the motivation to do anything other then narrate the buzzing activity of the other entities in the house. His mind was a whirlwind of descriptions, his words coloring each conversation that swirled through the Manor vividly and thoroughly right as they happened. He even described the motions of Wilford's surprisingly calm cat as she padded at the heels of her eccentric owner without a sound. The more he talked, the more The Host's head began swimming with all the emotions, feelings, and thoughts of the men that remained inside the house. "However," The Host narrated quietly, his hands resting by his sides as he breathed slowly and evenly, "The Host concluded that having a confused mind was  _ far  _ better then having a mind that felt like it was being burned consistently with a blowtorch."

He finally got up after finishing a very graphic narration of what Bimothy had eaten for lunch two days ago ("All that The Host can say to that is what the fuck.") and had traversed through the clumps of people crowded together in the main lobby, their talk only creating more narrations for The Host as he tried to slide by the men as silently as possible. Try as he might, once The Host had actually placed foot on the winding staircase in front of him along with a steady hand on the wooden banister, Dr. Plier briefly turned away from the story about a patient that had gotten addicted to smelling a certain type of hotel soap he was explaining to Wing to throw a smile and a wave at the ascending blind man in front of him. The Host tried not to scowl as he forced his sight from his eyes and almost mechanically waved back to the therapist. 

Jealousy really was a bitch to deal with, wasn't it?

The Host was now meandering casually through the upper floors of Darkiplier's impressive manor, The Host's hands gripped firmly behind his back as his large boots thumped rhythmically against the wooden floor boards as he walked. "There was less trash adorning the floor on the second level of the marvelous manor," The Host narrated quietly as he kicked a crumpled up ball of paper with the toe of his brown boot, the paper sailing across the narrow hallway and into an open door that led to a guest room to The Host's right, "The Host finds this a bit odd. Why would Darkiplier clean the upper floors but neglect the lower when visitors are more apt to see the main lobby and dining hall then the guest bedrooms up the stairs? The Host will have to continue to speculate his surroundings if he wishes to find out."

Sighing inwardly, The Host let his sight flow like a gentle stream into his eyes, sharpness and color filling his world with one inch at a time as the hallway he had been trodding down materialized in front of him like magic… Well. It  _ was  _ magic, but that was besides the point.

Faded blood red wallpaper stretched down either side of the long hallway, the intricately patterned paper curling into itself at the top and bottom of the plaster wall. The symbol that once proudly adorned the covering had faded into the sea of red that surrounded it, becoming nothing more then illegible smooth circles and sharp lines in a ivory coloring that barely appeared on the wall at all. Wooden doors flanked each other as The Host continued solemnly down the hall, most of the iron handled doors wide open and displaying either a guest bedroom or a storage room of some sort inside. The floor creaked with every step The Host took, a rather loud  _ SQUEAK _ frightening The Host enough that he nearly jumped ten feet in the air (he then promptly scolded himself for getting scared of a goddamn  _ squeaking  _ noise because  _ come on _ ). It was almost like a maze, even though The Host could clearly see where the hallway ended in front and in back of him. It was just that, with the spacing of the doorways and the faded coloring of the walls, all the hallways looked nearly  _ identical _ .

It was almost as if Markiplier Manor  _ never ended... _

The Host felt a shiver crawl up his neck as he toyed with the notion that he was simply a rat in a maze that led to nowhere. 

Jesus. The Author would be proud of the architecture of the Manor, that was for sure.

As The Host allowed his sight to fade, plummeting his world back into a total darkness, The Host focused instead on his other, less intense senses. While The Author had been able to take The Host's sight all those years ago, he hadn't (and most likely didn't feel like) obstructing his other four senses at all; In fact, The Host could even argue that The Author had given him a  _ gift _ when he mutilated The Host eyesight permanently. The removal of his eyes had made The Host's hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting all the more sensitive and  _ powerful _ to the chaotic, black void that now accompanied The Host whenever his sight wasn't with him. Some would even argue that The Host deep,  _ deep  _ down was  _ grateful  _ he had been blinded by the cruel person he had unfortunately grown up with. That was, admittedly, a stretch, but being grateful over something The Host couldn't change even if he wanted to was better then the alternative of allowing a circle of hatred and loathing to swirl through his heart.

There was enough of that around Markiplier Manor anyway. No need to be adding to the sorrow that had leaked into the poisoned walls when there was plenty to go around for everybody without  _ his  _ help. 

"As The Host began to near the end of the never-ending hallway," The Host calmly narrated, his hands tucked deep into his trench coat pockets as he tried to rinse his mind of his previously morbid thoughts and ease his erratically beating heart, "The Host listened carefully to the creaking floorboards under his feet. With each step, it sounded as if The Host were about to break the fragile, old wood and fall right through to end up back on the first floor." A particularly loud screech filled the hall as he finished his sentence, The Host jumping spritely into the air with a sharp intake of breath before composing himself and continuing his march (if not a  _ little bit  _ faster) to the end of the hall. "Though the noise startled The Host, he continued down the hall regardless, the distinct smell of iron and cedarwood becoming stronger with each timid step-"

The Host paused his narrations as he removed one of his hands from his pockets and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. The smell was… disturbing… to say the least. Iron and cedarwood are two  _ very  _ potent scents that  _ did not  _ contrast nicely with each other. It was as if the two smells, one full of malice and plaster and the other full of coldness and dirt, were at war with each other over who would dominate the inside of The Host's nose. And, quite honestly, it was beginning to give The Host a headache. It didn't help that the hallway felt like it was warming up with each begrudgingly step forward The Host took either. "The Host is anxious to get out of this hallway," The Host muttered to himself as he un-plugged his nose and reached a shaking hand towards the wall to his right, his fingertips scraping against the warming surface as he continued to walk….

And walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and-

Wait.

Tilting his head to the left, feeling several pieces of his blonde tinted hair fall onto his forehead, The Host pursed his lips, inhaled slowly, and began to listen  _ very  _ carefully.

…

Singing.

Someone was singing.

"Just as an overwhelming feeling of disorientation had washed uncomfortably over The Host, the sound of a man singing guided the blind man forward. The Host felt closer to the end of the blood hallway at the sound of the entity's voice then he had the entire time he had been on the upper floor of Markiplier Manor."

And then he was off, walking fast enough to move at a steady rate and yet slow enough to still be able to hear the man's song through the thin plaster of the wall. By now, the hall felt close to the same temperature as a sauna, a thin sheen of sweat sticking The Host's blond and raven locks to his forehead as puddles of sweat began to form in his eye sockets. It was disgusting and only acted to further push The Host closer to the end of the hellish hallway. But… it was getting to be a bit too hot for The Host's liking. It was hot to the point that the  _ air itself  _ felt like it was boiling. Not to mention, the cedarwood and iron scent permeated  _ EVERYTHING _ now. There was literally no escaping the God awful smell as it writhed mercilessly up The Host's nose. 

It was right about then that The Host began to feel a small sliver of  _ panic  _ rush up his back and nestle into the front of his mind like a snake poised to strike. 

Was he… was The Host somehow in another one of The Author's  _ stories _ ? H-how!? The Author was  _ dead _ , for fucks sake! "The Host urges himself to calm down," The Host tried to narrate before feeling a wave of nausea sweep over him in a wave so violent it almost made him keel over on the spot. He stumbled as he felt vomit crawl up his throat, his hands resting on his knees as he stopped in his trek to dry heave towards the floor for a second. Oh God. What was happening to him? Why did he feel so sick all of a sudden? "The Host- must be under some kind of spell," The Host tried to reason as he slowly straightened once more and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Whose spell, though? It  _ couldn't  _ be The Author's… it just couldn't be! Then who would target The Host like this?  _ Francis  _ couldn't do magic, r-

_ SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEAM! _

"...The Host is definitely under a spell right now," The Host breathed as his muscles tensed up, his sight flashing just long enough for him to see that the walls were now no longer just  _ colored  _ like blood… they were  _ bleeding _ , "...The Host can no longer hear the male singer from earlier." Was the singer even  _ real _ ? The Host wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't.

A red hot burning sensation slid into The Host's veins as he continued to trudge onward, trying not to think of the way his feet were  _ sinking _ into the floorboards like the wood was made of quicksand. "This," The Host muttered as he placed a hand on the slick wall to his right to balance himself with a grimace, "Is what Hell feels like."

POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND...

That's when The Host first heard the footsteps, Loud, spread apart footsteps that were positively pounding against the floorboards as whatever was making those footfalls loudly stampeded towards The Host.

The Host didn't need to narrate aloud to know that whatever the  _ fuck  _ was behind him had every intention to strike The Host dead if it made it to where The Host was standing.

The Host also didn't need to narrate aloud to know what to do next.

" _ RUN. _ "

So that's what The Host did, his feet suddenly freed from their woody prison as The Host scrambled to evade the thing that was boring down upon him. Pumping his arms and silently praying that he didn't trip over anything as he ran, The Host concentrated on his rhythmic footfalls and screaming narrations as they slammed against the side of his skull and not on the creature's rancid breath as it drew ever closer.

POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND…

The only thing louder then the malevolent creature's snarling and screaming was the violent thumping of The Host's heart against his rib cage.

POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND, POUND…

"Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit-"

The Host's bumbling words were immediately cut off as a shriek filled the never-ending hallway, the piercing noise slicing through the boiling air and nearly causing The Host to stumble into one of the bloody walls with surprise. It wasn't until The Host was yanked backwards, his arm ripping painfully in it's socket and another sob echoing down the hallway, that he realized that the screams were coming from  _ his own lips _ .

"Look at me~"

Twisting his head sharply towards the noise, The Host nearly gagged as cedarwood and blood flooded his nose, another quiet whimper escaping his lips as he tried to feebly rip himself away from whatever was holding onto him. All  _ that _ did was cause whatever was  _ biting  _ him to sink it's needle sharp teeth deeper inside the meaty muscle of The Host's arm. A growl rushed into The Host's ears as he leaned as far away from the threatening noise as possible, his feet slipping uselessly on the floor as he desperately tried to think of a way to escape.

"I said, Look. At-"

Silence.

And then a chuckle.

"Lucky you. We'll have to continue this  _ later _ , Isaac~"

The Host's stomach dropped.

"H-how-?"

"Don't worry about it~"

Suddenly the pressure on his shoulder released, The Host crumbling to the floor with a hiss of pain as he curled into himself and clutched at his burning and bleeding shoulder with both hands. Oh, how The Host  _ longed  _ to force his sight into his vision and take a good look at the beast that had nearly ripped his body in half. But the pain emitting from his shoulder demanded all of his attention and, honestly, The Host didn't feel like he  _ could  _ get his sight to cooperate at the moment.

That was truly a scary thought indeed. The Host had ALWAYS been in control of his powers... Even when The Author had dictated his every mood.

"I bid you adieu, Isaac. I will see you again soon enough, I'm sure~"

The screaming stopped.

The blood and cedarwood faded.

The heat reduced back to its original temperature.

And the wood under The Host's shivering body was hard to the touch.

The Host could hardly tell what was real and what was an illusion anymore, his shaking hands retracting from his shoulder as he gently pushed himself upright and breathed in the refreshingly cool air of the Manor. His sight swam lazily back into his vision, The Host smacking his lips together as he tried to regulate his breathing and tried not burst into tears (of relief? Of sadness? The Host had no clue which was more likely at the moment)... He choked back a distressed noise as he took in the sight that lay in front of him.

The hallway… the never-ending hallway… the hallway that he had been traversing for what felt like  _ twenty minutes  _ before he had been attacked by whatever the FUCK that was… was no longer then  _ thirty feet _ in length.

_ THIRTY. FEET _ .

To put it simply, The Host could have walked down the hallway in less then a  _ minute _ . 

If there was any doubt to The Host that he had been under some sort of dark power just a few seconds ago… this was practically the nail on the coffin. There was  _ NO _ denying it now.

" **_Seasons changed and so did time~_ **

" **_When I grew up, I called him mine~_ **

" **_He would always laugh and say_ ** ~

" **_Remember when we used to play?~_ ** "

Shifting in place on the floor, The Host turned sharply to his left, his mind scrambling even more as his brain bounced lightly against the side of his skull, and glared into an open door that led into a dimly lit drawing room that was directly beside him. Black out curtains seemed to cover all the large windows that adorned the outer wall of the room and two antique sofas sat cozily next to an iron fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in years. Though The Host's vision was more wobbly and patchy then it normally was just because his body was still in Fight-or-Flight mode, The Host could see the dark shape of a man sitting on the far end of one of the sofas, his baritone voice continuing to sing lowly as he slowly paged his way through a book laying neatly on his lap.

A flash of anger blazed through The Host, the pain of his shoulder wound almost completely calterized by the flames beginning to grow steadily in The Host's chest as he bunched his fists and slowly rose inch by inch into a standing position.

Dark didn't even look up from his book, simply lifting a delicate hand to brush a few strands of his ebony hair out of his eyes before turning the page and continuing his melancholy song.

" **_Now he's gone, I don't know why~_ **

" **_And 'til this day, sometimes I cry~_ **

" **_He didn't even say goodbye~_ **

" **_He didn't take the time to lie~_ ** ."


	9. Chapter 9

"What the fuck is this?"

The Host's venomous tone dribbled from his lips and splashed into the spacious drawing room in front of him, The Host taking a tiny step forward so that he could lean a hand against the dark wooden door frame to his right. The grey light from the hallway cascaded over his shoulders and drenched his body in almost total shadow, The Host tightening his hold of the wood in his grip to keep himself from tipping over. 

"What. The. Fuck. _Was_ _that_?"

The Host's eyes were beginning to burn, but he didn't care. He didn't care that blood was beginning to form under his bandages from using his sight too long. He didn't care that his legs felt like they were ten seconds away from giving out. He didn't care that the fear that he had experienced earlier was morphing into something far more dangerous, boiling under the normally calm and collected entity's skin and whispering horrible things into the crevices of The Host's mind. No. He didn't care about any of that bullshit at all. All The Host wanted was for Dark to  _ fucking look  _ at him.

"Did Darkiplier not  _ hear  _ The Host? Does The Host need to repeat himself because the demon in front of him is pointedly  _ ignoring  _ The Host at the moment?"

" **I'm not ignoring you.** " It was then that Dark finally glanced up from his book, his face twisted into a bored expression as he used his right hand to smooth down the front of his suit jacket with one singular motion. Dark leaned farther back into his seat, as if to make himself more comfortable on the undoubtedly lumpy couch, and crossed one of his legs over the other as he eyed The Host with a flurry of emotions storming in his eyes. " **Accusations will get you nowhere, Isaac-** "

"Do  _ NOT _ CALL The Host that. That is  _ NOT _ The Host's name. Not anymore."

" **Fine** ." The Host could tell by the scowl slowly inching its way onto the demon's face that The Host was beginning to annoy Dark. Watching as the demon cracked his neck sharply to the left with a snap that sizzled through the tense air, The Host felt the flames that licked and curled in his stomach spread throughout the rest of his body. The Host's normally clammy skin felt like it was heating to a degree that practically seared his flesh right from his bones. Uncomfortable flashbacks of his hellish vision burst into The Host's mind the longer his brain decided to focus on how hot he had gotten over a series of minutes, The Host nearly shivering in fear before catching himself and forcing himself to keep an angered disposition towards the dark entity before him.

That  _ was _ the only way you could really get a demon to listen to you, after all. 

Demons could be just so  _ stubborn _ at times.


	10. Chapter 10

Dude, what happened to  _ you _ ? You look like you just saw a ghost!"

The Host didn't bother to answer Bing's absurd question, simply choosing to slide onto one of the tall wooden stools that surrounded the island that was tiled securely to the kitchen floor and rest his arms on the countertop with a groan. At the moment, The Host was feeling less friendly and more homicidal, his hands clenching into fists while he felt the young android drift closer to him carefully, as he tried not to think about what had happened in the hallway upstairs, his teeth grinding together as the image of Dark staring  _ smugly _ at him from the sofa  _ burned _ to the front of his mind. 

Hunching into himself as he shook his head sharply, The Host bowed his head until his skull hit the wooden table with a thunk, The Host hoping that Bing would _understand what The Host was trying to communicate to him_ and _just_ _fuck off_. Unfortunately, it appeared that androids (or at least the type of android that Bing was; The Host wasn't so sure about the Googles) could not understand the concept of social cues, as demonstrated when Bing took another heavy step forward and placed a hand reassuringly on The Host's shoulder. As the android squeezed his shoulder in a way that The Host guessed was _supposed_ to be calming but instead came off as a bit too harsh and a bit too tight on his already sore shoulder blade, The Host turned his head so that his left cheek was flat against the coolness of the table and tried not to curse the android out loud. Bing was just trying to be helpful, after all. He was _quite_ young, compared to The Host, as well, so maybe the android simply didn't know any better.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

The Host was still feeling a bit discombobulated from the fun little  _ adventure _ that he had had upstairs, so forgive him if he wasn't feeling particularly trusting at the moment.

"The Host is  _ fine _ ," The Host grumbled angrily as he traced a groove in the table with his finger, trying to keep his mind focused on the edges and curves of the disfigured wood and not on how Bing's hand was just a  _ little _ too close to where that… that  _ thing  _ had bitten him. The Host could still feel gushes of blood oozing out from the carnage that was the upper half of his arm and he knew for a fact that he was going to have to get his coat dry cleaned… again. Jesus. Just one more thing to worry about, huh? "Though The Host appreciates Bingiplier's menstrations," The Host raised his head up off of the rapidly warming wood and rested it on the hand that had been tracing the table's blemishes. He felt Bing's hand slowly stop rubbing at his sore spot, the android's core whirling silently as he waited for The Host to continue his sentence, "The Host does not particularly want anyone touching him right now."

It took a few moments before Bing actually  _ heard _ what The Host was saying to him, The Host hearing a clicking noise sound deep within the android's chest before Bing made a distressed noise and yanked his hand back from The Host as quickly as he could. "I'm so sorry, dude!" Bing stammered out as The Host rolled the shoulder that the android had been holding onto with a growl of pain, "I totally didn't mean to just, like, grab you or whatever! I didn't realize you didn't want me too! I was, you know, just trying to help!"

Ah. So there seems to be a common theme playing around the Manor today. Huh. That's interesting. Shifting in his seat so that he wasn't literally folded in half over the countertop, The Host tilted his head in Bing's general direction, using his core as a source point, and reassured the android with a stern voice, "The Host is aware that Bingiplier was 'just trying to help'. As of the moment, The Host does not require any additional care because he is completely fine. The Host appreciates Bing and his efforts, however."

"Yeah, uh…" An awkward silence fell over the two entities, The Host muttering his narrations (because honestly, at this point, he could give less of a damn if anyone saw him doing it) under his breath as Bing hopped from foot to foot uncomfortably, "I guess I just noticed your uh… expression! Yeah, your expression looked, like, really s-----, bro, so I just thought I'd come over and ask what was wrong."

The Host frowned at the end of the android's sentence, his right hand traveling to bottom of his coat to play with a string that had been hanging there for a few months, and flashed his sight to get a glimpse at the clumsy tongued entity in front of him. The Host nearly snorted aloud as he took in Bing's disheveled hair and the orange painted skateboard he was clutching in his right hand, The Host finding joy in the fact that Bing looked quite  _ childish _ . Though he could never say it aloud, The Host stashed his comparison into the deep recesses of his long term memory and stated coldly, "Asking  _ what is wrong _ does not require you to  _ touch _ someone, Bingiplier."

A look of genuine confusion crossed Bing's face as he bit the bottom of his lip thoughtfully, The Host watching silently as he crossed one of his own legs over his opposite thigh and saw the android's cheeks slowly light up from the orange LEDs that were implanted into his silicone skin. "W-well," Bing glitched slightly on the first word, a sure sign that the android was trying to multitask between talking and processing what The Host had just told him, "Studies have shown that skin on skin contact helps lower levels of cortisol in the body." He paused and moved his skateboard from the side of his body to the front, almost as if he were using the flimsy piece of wood as a shield to protect himself from The Host. The Host could also see that the android's eyes were glowing orange from behind the sunglasses he had rested on the bridge of his nose. "Basically I was trying to get you to chillax, dude," Bing finished quietly, The Host humming under his breath as he pulled at the string at the bottom of his coat temptingly.

Narrations continued to describe the distraught nature of Bingiplier even as The Host's sight slipped out of his eyes like rain running down a window pane, The Host turning back towards the sink and refrigerator that stood rigidly in front of him with a sigh of discontentment. "The Host understands," he responded darkly as he lowered his head back to the table, the painful pull of his shoulder as he leaned downwards bringing all the nasty visions The Host had seen and experienced upstairs with  _ Dark _ to the forefront of his mind once more.

No. No.  _ No. _ The Host will NOT keep thinking about that. It wasn't worth the effort to continue to get upset. Whether or not The Host was slowly becoming not only a sociopath but also a psychopath (The Host inhaled sharply at the words and tried not to think about what they implied about him), he still had enough common sense (and lucidity) to reason internally with himself. Perhaps… perhaps Dark hadn't  _ meant _ to conjure that illusion at all. Maybe he was stressed and needed to release his energy somehow, so his black magic had lashed out at the first person it came into contact with… That made sense, right?

Or, you know, The Host could be slowly going insane. It was in his blood, after all. The depressing and dank decor of Markiplier Manor could be triggering the same psychotic break that had befallen The Author eighty-five years ago in his now blinded younger brother. God, The Host hoped not… Though it made sense, considering how he had acted with Dr. Iplier earlier that day. The Host sighed lightly under his breath as his brain conjured up the doctor's name, his heart feeling as though a python was squeezing all of the blood out of it as every memory that The Host shared with Dr. Iplier flashed through his mind. The Host really  _ had _ messed up that morning, he wouldn't deny that in the slightest. Not only that, in a way, he was a damn hypocrite, yelling at the beautiful doctor for grabbing his arm when he himself had snagged Dr. Iplier's arm (and then threatened him, but The Host wasn't ready to address that yet) only an hour later. 

So this was what he was becoming: a sociopathic, psychopathic, hypocrite that accuses his host of performing dark magic on them and then proceeds to yell at one of the only people in the house that will go near him without complaint or bribery.

Wow.

Time to think of something a little less daunting for a bit.

"Where are all the others?" The Host didn't dare use his sight and take the risk of seeing that Bing had walked out of the kitchen to leave The Host alone. While The Host appreciated the quietness of a room as his mind rumbled on about something or another, he didn't particularly want to be alone right now. A few moments of silence filled what The Host now presumed to be an empty kitchen, the blind entity's stomach sinking as he lifted the hand that had been playing with the hem of his coat back to the table and traced the curves of the countertop. The Host didn't blame Bingiplier; he probably would have left too if the roles were revers-

The sound of clanking footsteps filled the kitchen and The Host smiled softly while nestling his face into the crook of his elbow. The gentle pop of the refrigerator door opening was acutely followed by a 'hmm'ing noise and then the android's pleasant, non static filled voice responded brightly, "Uh… it depends. Some went to work, others went to bed. Oh! This one dude named Wing went out to fix his flying rocket ship car and it's the sickest thing I've ever seen in my whole life!" It was as if The Host had never snapped at him in the first place, Bing seeming just as excited as he had been when The Host had first talked to him. In fact, the android sounded even more chipper then before The Host had had his mini meltdown.

...it was suspicious to say the least…

But that could just be The Host's paranoia talking. He was suspicious of everybody at first (except for when he had met Dr. Iplier, of course. The Host had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame).

The sound of a soda can popping open snapped The Host from his thoughts, The Host listening as Bing slurped on the drink noisily with a tiny smirk. It was only a matter of time. Considering how 'young' the android acted on occasions, The Host was surprised that Bing hadn't already lost interest in the conversation and run off to do whatever the fuck you do with a skateboard. You ride those things, right? "The Host did not know that Bingiplier could drink actual fluids," The Host said as he uncrossed his arms and stretched them forward across the table, The Host eventually sitting up slowly (pointedly  _ ignoring _ the stretching pain in his shoulder) and turning to look at Bing as they were having their conversation.

The Host could practically  _ hear _ the smile in Bing's words as the android laughed and replied easily, "I  _ know _ , dude! It's the new update that I just got last month! It lets me eat and drink ACTUAL food and soda along with download over ten million songs on Spotify and YouTube! Like, it's the  _ best  _ update I've had so _ far _ , bro!" The Host chuckled lightly at the android's exclamation, his narrations telling him that Bing was jumping from foot to foot as he greedily sucked down the drink in his hand. "You think I'm gonna get a sugar high from this? Googs has told me about them before, but, like, I've never been able to  _ drink soda _ ," Bing giggled again as the sound of crinkling metal pierced the air sharply with a crunch, "Bro, I  _ hope _ I get a sugar rush. That would be f------ awesome!"

The Host nodded his head with interest before responding calmly, "Perhaps Bingiplier will experience a sugar rush in twenty minutes. That is, The Host believes, to be about the time for food and drink to be processed through the body's system." Reaching up a hand to brush away at a piece of his bangs carefully, both of his legs swinging haphazardly off the side of the hard stool he was sitting on, The Host listened as Bing walked over to the nearby trash bin and threw the empty can inside with a kerplunk before asking casually with a smile, "Did Googliplier assist Bing with his update?"

He had meant it as a light question, but, as Bing's bright laugh began to die down and the small kitchen was filled with the dull thrumming of his core, The Host knew he had made a mistake. "Um… yeah," Bing stated simply, his short answer and embarrassed tone immediately making The Host feel terrible all over. The python squeezed tighter around his heart, its scaly girth beginning to push into the sides of The Host's ribcage as well. The Host's sight slowly returned to his sockets at that moment, The Host cursing himself inwardly as he saw the hunched up form of the android on the other side of the tiled kitchen. 

Bing was looking at everything but The Host, his body shifting so that he was now leaning precariously against a blue wallpapered wall with his ankles and arms crossed in front of him, as a series of indescribable emotions flickered across the android's face rapidly. His orange eyes flashed in time with his facial expressions, the late afternoon sun that flew through one of the nearby windows making the android's face look even more orange then it normally did. The sun glinted prettily against the few exposed pieces of exoskeleton that adorned Bing's face near his ears, The Host almost finding the scene serene if not for the concerning expressions flying across the android's face.

Bing then seemed to freeze in place, his muscles visibility straining as the Android's entire body just stopped working for a few moments. An icy shot of fear laced through The Host's bones as his vision disappeared over the disturbing scene. Oh no. Had he somehow broken Bingiplier? Shit really wasn't going right for him today, was it? "Bingiplier?" The Host asked timidly, his mind beginning to pulsate as he slid off his stool and padded over to where Bing had stopped working. He stopped right in front of Bing, taking note with a sigh of relief that Bing's core was still running properly. That meant that the android had only frozen, as The Host had originally suspected, instead of shutting down or, worse yet, dying completely. Breathing gently as he shoved both of his shaking fists into his trench coat pockets, The Host spoke once more with a rush of breath, "Bingiplier."

"...hm?"

"Are you alright?"

The Host bit his bottom lip anxiously as he watched Bing slowly unfreeze himself, a tiny jingle playing from deep within his chest as the android licked his lips and uncrossed his arms. Bing let his arms fall to his sides limply, the android more slumping then leaning against the wall now, as he looked directly at The Host and croaked out, his speech absolutely  _ riddled _ with glitches as he clumsily formed the words, "Y-y-yea-ah. I'm-m toooootally-y f-f-f-fine, br-ro."

The Host didn't believe that for a second as he stepped out of Bing's personal space, guilt climbing out of his gut and clawing at his insides as he listened to the android push himself off the wall with a grunt. The Host had to say something; What was left of his conscious wouldn't let do anything less. "The Host apologizes profusely for causing Bingiplier any harm," The Host mumbled hurriedly, the blind entity taking another step backwards and bumping into the stool he had just been sitting on earlier and effectively knocking it to the floor with a slam. A series of colorful swears soared from The Host's lips as his sight flashed and he leaned down to fix the tipped seat, guilty narrations tugging at his lips as he grasped the wooden stool with both hands and righted it without a problem.

"Nah dude. It's all good," The Host couldn't stop the little sigh of relief that escaped his lips as he listened to Bing's (non-glitching) voice from behind him, The Host feeling the floor shake slightly as the android slowly but surely trodded over to The kneeling Host, "That's what sucks about bein' an android, dude. Sometimes you just glitch the f--- out and you don't really know why. At least it's fixed now though! And…" Bing fell silent as a few clicks resounded from his direction, the android making a happy noise a few seconds later as he exclaimed, "Nothings broken! Sweet!"

The Host chuckled softly as he stood slowly and repositioned himself on the stool, one foot planted firmly on the ground as the other was bent sideways in a way that  _ looked _ uncomfortable but actually felt like  _ heaven _ to The Host's wary body. "Good. The Host is glad Bingiplier is safe," The Host responded warmly, the guilty feeling nagging at him only slightly when he heard Bing snicker from across the room. Quirking a curious brow, The Host asked with a smirk, "Care to share what is on your mind, Bingiplier?"

Bing's snickering turned instantly to a loud laugh as he walked closer to The Host, the blind entity's sight flashing long enough for him to see Bing's rosy (or orang-y, The Host mused) cheeks and gleaming sunset colored eyes from behind his thick sunglasses. "Dude," Bing began once he had calmed down a little bit, his mouth pulled into one of the widest smiles The Host had ever seen. The grin grew wider as Bing asked in between bouts of laughter, "Was that a sugar rush or did I just have a motherf------ blue screen moment?"

_ That  _ made The Host burst into stitches of giggles, a sound that The Host wasn't entirely comfortable with when it came from himself. But this… this was pleasant. Strange, but pleasant nonetheless. 

"You ever heard the word  _ Idyllic _ before?" Bing's sudden switch in topic caught The Host quite off guard, The Host nodding slowly as he leaned backwards and rested his elbows on the counter behind him. 

"Idyllic means to be extremely happy, peaceful, or picturesque," The Host replied smoothly, his mouth quirking into a smirk as he heard the android in front of him hum in approval. Something that The Host was and probably would  _ always _ be good at were using pretty words in sentences, so Bing's question, while bizarre, was answered as quickly as a snap of The Host's fingers. "Why is Bingiplier asking?"

"When I was programmed, my developers put in my programming a  **Word of the Day** function," Bing responded proudly, The Host's narrations telling him that the android placed his hands on his hips and smiled wildly as the words left his lips. Bing gave The Host a cheeky look (one which The Host returned with a waggle of his eyebrows) before teasing, "I wanted to see if you, like, knew as much as I thought you did, dude. Since you're all about words and stuff."

The Host snorted as he leaned his head backwards, exposing the sides of his neck above the collar of his tan trench coat as he placed both of his feet firmly on the ground so he wouldn't fall and crack his head. "Does Bingiplier know what  _ serendipity _ means?" The Host asked with a grin, content to play the android's game if not to appease his earlier blunder concerning Google.

Bing's giggle was laced with a metallic undertone as he replied quickly, "Dude! You're asking a f------  _ android _ if he knows what the definition of a word is! Of COURSE I know what  _ serendipity _ means!"

"Well then," The Host challenged with no malice, The Host crossing his arms across his chest with a sly smile, "Do define, Bingiplier."

"Serendipity means the occurrence or the development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way."

Snapping up from his reclining position, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process, The Host turned his head sharply towards the hallway entrance to the kitchen, his arms tightening around him as the fact that who ever had just spoken was  _ not Bing _ repeated over and over again in his mind. The Host heard a low huff come from the direction of the android as Bing, his mechanical joints whirring dully as he turned as well, whined, "Really, dude?! Come on! He wasn't even asking you!"

The intruder didn't bother to respond to the distraught android, simply grunting lowly and shuffling into the kitchen and closer to the steel refrigerator. The Host, the beating of his heart sounding like thunder in his ears, slid off of his stool and turned on the heel of his foot, his vision flickering and giving him a vague sense of his surroundings as he faced the entity in front of him. "To whom is The Host speaking to now?" The Host snapped as he uncrossed his arms and leaned both of his palms flat onto the stone countertop in front of him. Paranoia flared up deep within his chest, but The Host was able to keep himself calm with the fact he had an  _ ally _ in Bing should the entity in front of him try to do  _ anything _ . 

The Host had the upper hand in this situation, that much was clear.

Tilting his head to the side as his sight flashed clearly, The Host felt a surprising wave of shock and  _ relief _ wash over him, the palms of his hands feeling significantly less clammy then they had just seconds ago as he felt the muscles of his body uncoil from the tight springs they had become. A small smile spread across The Host's face as he watched as Dr. Iplier pulled a plastic package of raspberries out of the refrigerator and, opening the squeaky package and popping two of the crimson berries into his mouth, turned on his heel with a withered look on his  _ gorgeous _ face. "Edward Iplier," the doctor responded around his mouthful of raspberries, Dr. Iplier closing the door of the refrigerator with his hip as he swallowed the berries loudly and shuffled over to where The Host was standing giddily. Trying to control his widening smile as Dr. Iplier gave him a onceover, the doctor raised a brow, dropped his package onto the table unceremoniously, and rested his elbows on the countertop as he continued snarkily, "We met talked this morning and you threatened to break my arm? Ring a bell?"

God, The Host felt like he had been waiting all  _ day _ for Dr. Iplier to return to Markiplier Manor, The Host's guilt for how he had behaved earlier eating away at his insides like a parasite trying to wiggle its way inside of his intestines. The Host was an asshole, that much he knew. And all The Host wanted to do was apologize, to lift the veil of discomfort and awkwardness that had descended over the pair after that morning's shinanagans. But, judging by the tired sound of Dr. Iplier's voice and by the way the doctor seemed to just be mindlessly shoving the raspberries into his mouth, maybe  _ now _ was not the best of times for The Host to beginning waxing poetic about how much of a dick he had been. "The Host did not say he would break your arm," The Host responded instead, his sight fading on Dr. Iplier as he stared into his package of berries like it was the most interesting thing in the whole wide world, "He simply said he wouldn't  _ let go of  _ Dr. Iplier's arm. There is quite a vast difference between the two responses."

"Right, right," Dr. Iplier mumbled under his breath, the plastic packaging making more noise as the doctor toyed with it with his finger, "I also remember saying that I would call the police if you touched me again." 

A ice shard wedged itself tightly into the confines of The Host's throbbing heart as his sight flashed and he saw Dr. Iplier's intense gaze boring angrily into The Host's forehead. This was going to be hard to fix, wasn't it? Though The Host  **did** deserve it if Dr. Iplier choose never to speak to him again. The Host wished he could never speak to  _ himself _ again as well. "Yes, that is correct," The Host replied carefully, The Host leaning over so that he was resting his forearms on the table comfortably. Reaching out one arm slowly, The Host plucked one of the raspberries from the plastic package (The Host's sight flashing long enough for him to see Dr. Iplier's furrowed brows and tight lips) and asked as he placed the scarlet berry on his tongue, "Why is Dr. Iplier here? Did he just get off from work?"

Dr. Iplier's bark of laughter vibrated through The Host as he slowly chewed the berry and allowed his sight to flood into his eyes once again, The Host watching silently as the doctor slide the package of berries out of The Host's reach with a dying chuckle before responding dryly, "I  _ wish _ . This is my  _ lunch break _ , Host."

A shifting of the creaky wooden floorboards behind him alerted The Host that Bing was walking his way over to the table as well, his bright orange core pulsing and, quite frankly,  _ hurting  _ The Host's already sensitive eyesight. "Dude. It's almost, like, four o'clock," the android's tone was shocked as The Host reached across the table and snatched a fistful of raspberries before Dr. Iplier could move the packaging out of his reach again. A slight burning sensation was beginning to appear at the front of The Host's skull as he handed over a few of the berries to Bing, whose confused expression quickly melted to a grin as he took the berries from The Host's hand and popped them into his mouth with a hum of delight, "These are delicious, holy s---!"

"Yeah well. That's the only lunch I'm gonna get, so…" Dr. Iplier snapped before picking up the raspberry package and taking a step back from the table, The Host letting his vision fade and allowing his narrations to take over as he ate another one of the berries in his hand. 

For a long time, the only thing that accompanied the following silence was The Host's narrations, Dr. Iplier's chewing, and Bingiplier's whirling core, The Host growing antsy as he grit his teeth and tried not to narrate aloud how  _ badly _ he wanted to give the doctor in front of him a gigantic hug and how  _ badly  _ he wanted to apologize for acting like a sociopath when Dr. Iplier had been trying to fix his bandages. It was taking almost  _ all  _ of his concentration to not blurt out the thoughts that had been swirling and twirling inside his mind since the moment he had  _ met _ the doctor only yesterday. It truly was a terrible thing to have a massive crush on someone you just met.

"I got jumped by Mister Grumpy-Britches himself when I first got in the Manor," Dr. Iplier said suddenly, The Host tilting his head in the kindly doctor's direction as he tried to shake all of his spiraling thoughts from his mind, "First of all, he seemed pissed, so I didn't stop to talk for long. But, he did mention in passing that later today there's gonna be another meeting-"

"Aw yeah!" Bing's excited voice made The Host smile fondly as he flashed his sight and saw Bing fist bump the air enthusiastically, "That's sick, dude! When's it at!"

Dr. Iplier took another step backwards, leaning the small of his back against the edge of the countertop as he crossed his ankles, before pursing his lips and replying apologetically, "Well, the thing is is that only the members of the  _ original meeting _ are supposed to go to this meeting." The doctor's chocolate eyes met The Host's faulty vision for a millisecond, but that was all it took for the butterflies to reawake in The Host's stomach with vigor.

"T-t-that's not fair though," the android pouted glitchly as he ran a hand through his messy hair and pulled the strands out of his synthetic face with exasperation, "Why is it that only so-some of us get to go? T-t-that's not how a democracy works, man!"

Sighing in agitation, Dr. Iplier plucked another raspberry from its plastic package and threw it into his mouth with an annoyed expression on his face. "Consider yourself lucky," he grumbled as he turned his gaze from the rapidly overheating Bingiplier to The flustered Host with an expression that The Host  _ dare  _ not try to understand least he set the butterflies on fire again, "You don't have to go to this stupid meeting in like twenty minutes when you need to be back at the hospital in  _ fifteen _ . Seems like it's time for round two of  _ How Long Will It Take For Dr. Iplier To Spontaneously Combust Because He Is So Fucking Stressed? _ "

A quiet chuckle escaped The Host's lips at Dr. Iplier's crase words, The Host covering his mouth with his hand as Dr. Iplier turned his signature glare from Bing to The Host. And if The Host saw a hint of amusement twinkling from the depths of the doctor's beautiful eyes… he pretended he didn't. And then The Host pretended that he didn't feel his insides warm up as the butterflies began to swarm closer and closer towards his scarred heart.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time The Host and Dr. Iplier had washed their hands of all the crimson juice that had come from the raspberries and had carefully navigated their way from the kitchen to the dining room, the blacked out room was practically swarming with activity. The Host could tell as he stepped quietly into the dimly lit dining room that most of the members of Wilford's meeting had already arrived, The Host's arms staying close to his sides as he followed Dr. Iplier silently to where he had been sitting during the meeting from earlier that day. The Host's flashing Sight gave him a pretty good idea of where the other entities were in the room, though it was becoming increasingly harder to see anything the farther he stepped into the dining room. In fact, the only thing that The Host could clearly see was Dr. Iplier's gleaming, white lab coat and that was only because the doctor was standing directly in front of him. Well that and the fact that The Host would every once and a while catch glimpses of Dr. Iplier looking back on The Host as if to  _ check _ on him. 

God, the man wasn't making it easy for The Host to focus on where he was walking  _ at all _ .

The Host hissed under his breath, his narrations stuttering for a second as his vision flickered in and out, noticing the ancient dining chair a moment too late as his hip slammed into the side of the wooden piece of furniture with a scrape of the chair leg across the decrepit floor. The noise sounded close to a train when it was breaking really fast across a track that hadn't been oiled in ten years… at least to The Host and his hypersensitive ears… And maybe to Dr. Iplier as well, who stopped walking to look over his shoulder with a concerned look crossing his features. "You alright?" The doctor asked as he turned on his heel and took the few steps necessary to be directly in front of The sore Host. 

Spearmint, the smell now quite the comfort for The Host, swirled up The Host's nose as he rubbed gently at his side with a grimace. Sure. The Host was  _ fine _ . And he  _ totally _ almost didn't wipe out because he couldn't stop giving the doctor currently standing  _ two _ fucking _ inches _ in front of him heart shaped eyes. Yep.  _ Totally fine _ . "The Host is quite alright," The Host replied calmly, his vision growing fuzzy before fading completely to darkness as he tried not to become intoxicated with the smell of spearmint. It wouldn't do him any good if he lost his composure now; it would only suit to do him harm in the long run. Plus, The Host still had to apologize for… whatever the fuck he had done that morning before he allowed himself to become  _ drunk _ over the thought of the man like a love sick fool (he still wasn't very sure of what he had been thinking when he had grabbed the doctor's arm and  _ squeezed _ . That was disturbing, to say the least). Chuckling lightly to bring himself out of his thoughts, The Host continued lightly, "The Host is just such a clutz sometimes, Doctor."

"Yeah, I can tell," the doctor replied lightheartedly, The Host hearing the sternness of Dr. Iplier's voice fade into something softer as The Host reached out a hand and grabbed the back of his chair before proceeding forward any farther. The minty scent of the doctor began to dissipate as The Host gently pulled out his chair and slid onto the cushioned seat without further incident, the blind man resting his palms flat onto the table as he let his narrations describe the mummering entities that surrounded him. King was seated at the far end of the table, his knees hiked up to his chest and his eyes blown wide as he frantically looked around the room as if he were an animal trying to escape a predator. Directly across from him sat Ed Edgar, the loud southern cowboy speaking gruffly into an ancient looking flip phone with his brown cowboy hat covering his aviators and the top of his rapidly flapping mouth. 

Two of the Googles, Blue and Red, were standing in the corner of the dining room and were rather  _ creepily _ analyzing all the entities in front of them, Blue's arms hanging by his sides and Red's crossed across his chest menacingly while the two androids were without a doubt sharing code back and forth concerning the personal lives of the other entities. Google Yellow was nowhere to be seen, though Google Green was easily identified, a serious yet alluring expression plastered across his face, as he engaged in a lively conversation with Bimothy and Wilford, the two hosts talking excitedly to each other about  **Markiplier TV** as Google Green listened passively to the side. It was clear to The Host that Google Green was recording the important parts of Bim and Wil's talk, much like how his counterparts were recording the entire room from the corner. Silver, the depressed superhero that had been so very kind to Justin yesterday, was sitting quietly by himself, his white gloved hands playing with the bottom of his cape while the superhero stared forlornly into his lap with a pathetic sigh.

Everyone was there. Even Septiplier had made an appearance, the red haired entity eating one of the remaining pancakes from that morning as his foot tapped restlessly against the ground in what The Host presumed was annoyance. Well, at least he had come, even though he had sworn he wouldn't go to another goddamn meeting even if his life depended on it… which it just might've, considering it was Dark who had called the meeting in the first place. The warm smells of Septiplier's pancakes momentarily distracted The Host from his narrations, The Host jarring out of his head completely when he heard the chair next to him get pulled out from under the table with a screech against the wooden floor. A flash of his sight confirmed (to The Host's relief) that it was indeed Dr. Iplier sitting down next to him and not… someone else. Who might that someone else be? It seems as though The Host's list of entities to be weary of was getting longer each passing day.

Swinging his legs over the left side of his chair, The Host turned his head in the direction he presumed Dr. Iplier was sitting, quiet narrations confirming his deduction and making a small smile appear across his face. A low chuckle from Dr. Iplier, his tenor voice seemingly reverberating throughout The Host's ribcage, had The Host retracting his smile just as quickly as it had appeared, the blind man's hand covering his mouth self consciously as he ducked his head in embarrassment. "What?" the doctor asked quietly, his voice marred with intrigue as The Host allowed his sight to flood his vision once more and, lifting his head shyly, The Host began gazing unabashedly at the man before him. It's not like Dr. Iplier could see him, right? The Host had bandages covering his eyes, for fucks sake! "Do I have something on my face?" Dr. Iplier continued jokingly, his left hand coming to his face to wipe at nothing as The Host tried not to get lost in his thoughts… again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It's just been an emotional roller coaster for the last day and a half for The Host.

One minute, he's thinking about the galaxies blazing across Dr. Iplier's face… the next he's thinking about the  _ shitty, shitty _ thing he did earlier that day.

… The Host still needs to apologize for that, doesn't he?

"Dr. Iplier does not have anything on his face," The Host finally spoke uneasily, the impending conversation he was sure he was going to have to have with the doctor making his stomach feel all sorts of queasy. As Dr. Iplier dropped his hand back into his lap (checking the black watch on his right hand as he did with a shake of his head and a pissed off huff), The Host scooched forward a tiny bit in his seat, making sure to keep a healthy distance between him and the doctor before asking quietly, "Edward…?"

Dr. Iplier's eyes flickered up from where he was staring angrily at his watch as a hint of confusion began to mingle with his irisus'. "Yeah?" He responded carefully, the doctor shifting in his seat as if he were uncomfortable before pursing his lips and giving The Host his full attention.

The Host swallowed, the noise sounding like a freight train in his mind.

Right.

It was now or never.

"The Host would like to apologize for causing Dr. Iplier any har-"

"DARKY!"

Wilford's piercing yell threw The Host for a loop, a dull throbbing beginning at the front of his skull as he turned (regretfully) from Dr. Iplier's soft expression and looked towards the entrance of the dining room. A shrill ring echoed lazily into the room as the demon himself half-floated, half-limped forward, the blue and red of his auras swimming away from his body and towards several of the other entities when Darkiplier got too close. As the demon slowly drifted closer, The Host sat up just a little bit straighter in his seat. Darkiplier was an imposing figure. The Host didn't want to do anything to piss off the powerful entity. He had heard stories, after all.

Horrible, horrible stories. 

As Dark finally made it to his seat, his monochrome face partially obscured by his ebony hair, the rest of entities either focused their attention on the demon or shuffled slowly to their seats, with Wilford practically bouncing to the other end of the table as the Googles slunk quietly to their respected seats. Bim, the lights from the hallway leading from the main lobby to the dining room reflecting in his glasses, didn't move to a seat and instead crossed his arms and leaned against the moldy wall with a passive expression. Silence descended upon the room as Dark yanked his chair out from under the table and sat in it primly, the demon smoothing out the wrinkles on his suit jacket with a few brushes of his hands before scooting his chair forward with a  _ scratching _ sound. Once he was settled, Dark laced his fingers together and placed them solidly on the table, his red aura swirling behind him as his blue aura drifted down the table aimlessly. " **I heard that there was a meeting this morning** ," the demon began dully, his dead eyes seemingly boring into every single one of the entities in front of him at the same time as his gaze shifted from one entity to another, " **Does anyone want to explain why I wasn't included in that particular discussion?** "

The splinter of ice in his tone made The Host cringe, The Host's sight fading as he turned from the demon and looked straight ahead at the wall instead. This felt far too much like an interrogation for The Host's liking.

In fact, everyone at the table seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable by Dark's words…

Well, all except Wilford. But the reporter wouldn't know what danger was even if it went and slapped him across the face. This deduction was further proven when Wilford slapped the table thunderously and exclaimed, "We  _ wanted _ to wait for you,  _ Darky-Doo _ . BUT you _ weren't  _ here! You were off doing some  _ bloody chore  _ and a meeting had to  _ commence _ before some of the men LEFT for the day!" Taking a step back, wrapping a hand around a pink suspender with a snap, Wilford grinned, obviously taking joy in the fact that Dark was even  _ here _ in the first place. As The Host continued to silently narrate under his breath however, he could tell that Dark was anything but amused.

" **Unbelievable** ," Dark mumbled angrily, his red aura cracking above his head as his scarlet eyes shifted from the now confused looking Wilford to the game show host leaning anxiously against the wall. " **The** **_chore_ ** **that I was so inclined to do this morning happened to involve the Jim Twins, I'll have you know. I wished to make sure that CJ was healing properly and that he and RJ would be able to return to Manor soon** ," the demon hissed towards Bim with a narrowed expression, The Host easily comparing Darkiplier's face to a cobra's when it is about to strike a mouse.

With everyone's attention focused solely on him, Bimothy stood up straight and pushed his black glasses further up his nose, the game show host staring back at Dark carefully as he raised a hand to cover a yawn as it escaped his lips. "Time is money, Dark," Bim replied somewhat lamely as he lowered his hand and crossed it over his torso as if he were giving himself a hug, "And… even though you weren't here, me and Wilford thought it would be best to get all of the- uh-  _ entities _ on the same page concerning the plan-"

" **And what** **_plan_ ** **did you discuss, if I may be so inclined to ask?** "

The Host gritted his teeth together as Bim blinked owlishly at Darkiplier. The demon was properly angered now it seemed. There was practically  _ smoke _ pouring out of his ears.

"I- uh- we discussed- you know- the uh-" 

Hearing Bimothy's normally confident voice be reduced to a blabbering mess was certainly an experience for The Host, the blind man pulling his hands off of the table and into his lap as Dark's shrill aura grew louder and louder by each passing second. 

" **Come now. Just spit it out,** **_Trimmer_ ** **. It's not like you're curing** **_world hunger_ ** **with this fucking plan of yours.** "

A chortle from the reverse end of the table seemed to pull the demon's attention away from the rapidly (and interestingly) paling game show host, the blue of Dark's aura wrapping around one of Wilford's wrists as the reporter shook his head with a sly smile. "Why  _ Darky _ ," Wilford cooed as he poked through the blue aura encircling his wrist with his index finger, "Don't be  _ silly! _ You already  _ KNOW _ what our PLAN is, for pete's sake!" The blue aura let go of the reporter's wrist sharply as Wilford went to poke it again, the psychotic entity watching the aura retract all the way back to Dark with a crackling noise with a twinkle in his eye. Stepping forward one step, Wilford made a popping sound with his mouth and, leaning over the table so that he could rest his forearms comfortably over the wooden surface, the reporter questioned in his slurring cadence, "You  _ do  _ remember  **Markiplier TV** ,  _ right _ ?"

" **How could I forget that train wreak of a plan** ," the demon snarked in return, the room dropping a few degrees as he stared daggers at Wilford's pleased look. Shuddering the slightest even though he was wearing a heavy jacket, The Host pulled his trench coat ever tighter around his shoulders with a few harsh tugs as he rubbed his palms against his thighs in an attempt to stay warm.

" _ Well… _ " Wilford continued grandly, his outrageous mustache twitching as he lifted himself from his forearms to his elbows, "Bimmy and I were planning on  _ continuing  _ the channel! THINK ABOUT IT! The people absolutely  _ adored _ that video and they will probably  _ absolutely  _ pay for more! The channel can help us keep our EYES," the reporter widened his glazed eyes for dramatic effect, "On ol'  _ Markle Sparkle _ ! AND… and this is the  _ best part _ … We all will  _ have to work _ together to produce this  _ monstrosity  _ of a channel, so we'll all get some nice BONDING TIME as well! It'll make us STRONGER and more POWERFUL, don't you  _ see _ ! Doesn't that just sound SMASHING, Dam- Dark!"

The Host perked up at Wilford's misspoken words, the room falling into a deathly silence as the reporter himself slowly pulled himself off the table without a sound. Twas something  _ very _ uncharacteristic for the normally obnoxious reporter indeed. Dark, his eyebrows furrowing together as he gazed down the dining room table and stared at the disturbed Wilford, blinked his coal black eyes and twisted his neck with a disgusting crack, his blue aura floating sluggishly back down the table and surrounding the reporter almost like a halo around his entire body. " **The problem with that plan** ," the demon began eventually, The Host leaning back slightly in his dining room chair as he tried to keep his narrations to a low hum, " **Is that it** **_didn't work_ ** **the first time you attempted it-** "

"Not entirely true, Darkiplier. Around 67% of Mark's subscribers watched and enjoyed the channel. More then fifty percent is not a failure, especially when there is only a 33% margin of people that did not enjoy or did not view the channel at all."

Google Blue's voice cut the demon off unexpectedly, Dark giving the android a miffed expression as Google Blue rattled off the statistics of  **Markiplier TV** with an emotionless expression on his face. Once he was done, the android's neon blue eyes flashed for a moment before Google Blue walked away from where he had been standing in the corner and walked all the way around the table until he picked the seat closest to Dark's, sitting into it with a thump as his counterparts remained in their standing positions. "The show needs modifications, of course," Google Blue continued to drone as he pulled his chair forward and fixed the demon next to him with a serious expression, "Perhaps more variety in the Egos that were presented in the shows? I'm sure Mr. Trimmer would appreciate the opportunity to host a game show on the channel just like he was originally promised. And surely Mr. Warfstache wouldn't mind interviewing a few of the Egos instead of his usual shlew of  _ unqualified _ guests. These are only but a few solutions that I can think of, Darkiplier. If you so wish, I can compose a list describing various methods in which to gain more viewers for  **Markiplier Tv** ."

" **Not now** ," Dark snapped as he stood up abruptly from his seat, The Host jumping slightly in his seat as the demon glared between the manic (now gum chewing, The Host realized as Wilford puffed his cheeks and blew the largest pink bubble The Host had ever seen), knife twirling Wilford and the blushing, almost  _ cowering  _ form of Bim Trimmer. " **Markiplier Tv did absolutely** **_nothing_ ** **to get us closer to our goal** ," the demon snarled, his eyes burning with fire as he placed both hands on the table in front of him for support. The Host could tell that Darkiplier's patience had just about run out.

"And what is our goal, if I may be so obliged to ask?" Ed Edgar called from the other end of the table, his phone now tucked away as the cowboy flicked his hat out of his eyes and slammed his hand onto the table with a crack. His aviators slipped down his nose as he made contact with the table and he pushed the metal and plastic sunglasses back up his nose as he continued with a drawl, "If yer gonna be all bent outta shape over some sorta littl' ol' tv show and how it don't follow your goal to the T, well then I've got bad news for you. Life don't always go accordin' to plan."

" **A fact I am** **_very_ ** **aware of,** " Dark growled in return, his red aura snapping all around his head like a whip that was being cracked over and over again. The demon removed his hands from the table to roughly pull at the end of his suit jacket in an attempt to remove any minuscule wrinkles that might be there, his deep voice booming across the table as he snarked, " **Though I already explained this during our last** **_proper_ ** **meeting, the goal is to simply gain control. Over Markiplier, over his channel, over his career, over his** **_life._ ** **Only then will we truly have all the power we need.** "

"Does Darkiplier care to elaborate?" The Host felt his lips moving before he could stop them, the feeling of all the entities at the table turning their attention to him making it easier for The Host to clamp his mouth shut before he said anything else he didn't mean to.

The demon's line of sight was as cold and unforgiving as Dark himself was, The Host shivering under the frozen gaze as Dark coldly replied, " **No. I do not care to elaborate anymore then I already have** ."

"Well then. How the fuck are we supposed to come up with plans that you approve of if we don't even know the details of the goddamn goal?"

"And how come we're even goin' after ol' Mark after all? He didn't do nothin' to us."

"Wouldn't gaining control of Markiplier k-kill him? That's- that's against the law, you know."

"And wouldn't killing him, like,  _ kill all of us  _ too?!"

"I mean, Wilford already stabbed him thirty times and nobody got hurt because of it."

"That information is not a satisfactory response as Warfstache also killed Septiplier and yet he is still here as well. Almost  _ everyone  _ Warfstache kills comes back in some form or another."

" _ Don't _ bring me into this conversation."

"Well THAT'S simply NOT TRUE! I haven't _killed_ a SINGLE SOUL in my _whole_ _life!_ "

" **Enough!** "

The chattering that had erupted into the room started to quiet down at Dark's forceful command, The Host grateful as the many voices of the entities had begun to mingle together and confuse The Host as he had tried to narrate the situation. As his blue aura slunk back to his body and joined his red aura above his head, Dark stood as straight as he possibly could and boomed down the table, " **I am not required to share any information that I deem unimportant to you** **_children_ ** **. The only part of this equation that you must memorize is how you all must** **_remain inside the Manor_ ** **.** " A flurry of outrage sprang around the table, none louder then Dr. Iplier as he complained loudly that he had to go to work and save people's  _ lives _ and couldn't be bothered with this Tom-Fuckery. Dark raised a hand and silence fell in the dining room once more. " **We are stronger together then we are apart** ," Dark growled as he slowly began to sit back into his seat once more, his joints snapping and popping as he made the painful journey, " **Mark is smarter then you think. If he wished to, he could track down** **_each and everyone of you_ ** **without so much as a second thought. What happens if one day he decides he doesn't** **_want_ ** **any Egos anymore?** "

The silence turned venomous after that chilling statement.

" **The Manor is one place that Mark will** **_never_ ** **journey to, simply because he is** **_afraid_ ** **of** **_me_ ** **and of what I could do to him if I were angered enough. I've made sure of that over the past decade or so.** " Dropping his gaze onto each of the entities in turn, his sight lasting far too long on The Host's warm skin for The Host's liking, Dark breathed in deeply and spoke calmly as his cyan eyes finally rested on Wilford, " **If you are smart about it, Wilford, I… will allow you and Mr. Trimmer to continue to work on Markiplier Tv.** **_However_ ** **, I reserve the right to shut down the operation at anytime. Am I understood?** "

Popping the large bubble that he had been blowing with the tip of his red encrusted knife, Wilford nodded his head excitedly and slurred with a wink, " _ AbsoLUTELY _ , Darky-Dark! This will be SPLENDID, just you  _ wait and see _ !"

And either the demon didn't notice the crossed fingers Wilford had hidden behind his back or simply didn't feel the need to address it, for Dark just nodded his head in the direction of the reporter's cheeky grin and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. " **Good. I expect nothing less** ," Dark grumbled as he leaned back in his seat with a grunt of pain. His blue eyes ghosted across The Host's face once more before he spoke again, " **Mind my warnings, the lot of you. Remember that I do not** **_have_ ** **to give any of you my protection** ," he huffed mildly as he fixed the cuff of one of his jacket sleeves, " **I'm done speaking for the day. Everyone except Google and The Host may leave.** "

And, with the utterance of his name, The Host's blood froze and his breath caught in his throat.

Visions of blood red walls and hellish screams flooded to the forefront of his mind, thoughts and feelings overstimulating The Host as memories he was trying  _ desperately _ to forget surfaced once more. The cold glare that Darkiplier was giving him caused a new wave of panic to wash through The Host like an avalanche.

Oh no.

Oh  _ no _ .


	12. Chapter 12

_ This has to be about the illusion from earlier. _

_ It HAS to be! _

The Host's throat felt dry as he watched the other entities stand up from their seats and sulk out of the room, most of them obviously not too happy after being yelled at by the demon sitting passively at the head of the dining room table. The Googles, especially Red, all scowled at Dark's words as they all moved in unison a step closer to the table. The last to leave the room, his knife disappearing magically as he skipped past The Host, was Wilford, the reporter blowing the table a kiss with a chuckle before slamming the door to the hallway closed on his way out. 

"What is it that you need from us, Darkiplier?" Google Yellow asked cautiously after a few moments, the android gripping the back of his chair like he was afraid Dark was going to surge forward and bite him. Google Yellow's eyes twitched as they blazed a neon gold while The Host sat up as straight as he could in his seat and allowed his sight to enter his vision sluggishly, the dank colors of the dining room contrasting the splashes of color that identified the four androids in such a way that it hurt The Host's eyes to look anywhere but directly at the grey scaled Darkiplier.

Watching as the demon's face slowly fell into a more relaxed expression, The Host focused on breathing slowly and deeply to calm himself down, the blind man resting one of his elbows onto the table and then propping his head up with his fist against the softness of his plush cheek. Dark began carefully, " **I only require Google Blue for this discussion. The only thing I need from** **_you_ ** **,** " Dark looked from Google Yellow to the positively seething Google Red at the other end of the table and then finally to the mildly annoyed Google Green from where he stood near the door with crossed arms, " **Is to** **_leave_ ** **.** "

Google Green let out a noise of disbelief before shooting a dirty look at the expressionless Google Blue and then turning on his heel with a roll of his emerald eyes. "Whatever. I have more important things to do anyway," Google Green hissed as he threw open the white (now splintering) hallway door and stalked out of the room, Google Yellow tossing a confused expression towards Google Blue before following right at the heels of his counterpart. Google Red's eyes flashed a multitude of times, The Host frowning as Google Blue's eyes mimicked the pulsating of Google Red's LEDs practically perfectly, before he slunk silently out of the room, the absolute silence the android made as he closed the door behind him with a click unnerving The Host more then he would care to admit aloud.

The Host licked his lips and scooted his chair forward a little bit, the tan ends of his coat swinging lazily at the sides of his chair as The Host crossed one of his legs over the other. If this meeting was going where he thought it was going, then The Host would need to be as comfortable as he could just in case he needed to make a quick escape to the hallway. The Host had learned that little tidbit of survival info a very long time ago. Eighty-five years ago, to be exact.

"Is there any reason that you do not wish for all my extensions to be a part of this meeting?" Google Blue asked mildly, his blue eyes practically flaming from behind the thin frames of his black glasses. The Host could tell just by the android's tone of voice (static crinkling just the slightest at the end of his sentence) that Google Blue did not like having his counterparts leave the room. Maybe it was because they all were connected and when they were farther apart, that connection grew more strained and thus slowed their processing of information down significantly. The Host wasn't entirely sure how the logistics of the machinery and updates that made up the GoogleIRL worked, but he did know one thing…

Dark had asked the extensions to leave because he wanted to reduce the possibility of the androids learning something that could be used as blackmail against him. That's the only thing that made sense to The Host. After all, if all four of the androids knew about the illusions the demon could cast, they could easily use that to their advantage in a future plot if they just waited long enough. 

GoogleIRL was still a murderous robot at the end of the day, regardless of if he had split his processing power four ways.

Regarding Google Blue's question with a tight frown, Dark rolled his shoulder and replied coldly, " **You know exactly why I asked them to leave, Google Blue. Don't act so surprised by my actions.** "

If looks could kill, the demon would've dropped dead in his seat. The loathsome expression Google Blue was boring into Dark's forehead was making even The Host cringe and he wasn't even  _ under _ the scrutiny of the gaze.

"U-understood," Google Blue glitched through clenched teeth, his attention turning to The Host, who sat a few chairs away from him, with a glare so sharp that The Host paused his stream of narration just to get those blue orbs off of him. So what if he was bound to get a killer migraine from it? That was a far better option then getting eviscerated by Google Blue and his counterparts once the meeting was complete.

Nodding his head slowly as his obsidian eyes narrowed at Google Blue's glitch, the demon placed his forearms on the table and hunched his form inward as a tiny hiss of pain escaped his lips. The Host quirked a brow as his mind flooded with an endless supply of possibilities concerning Darkiplier's health. Could he be dying? Was he ill? Maybe all that magic he had released earlier had been because he wasn't feeling as well as he claimed to be. " **I'm going to be frank** ," Dark muttered, his two auras wrapping tightly around his shoulders like a blanket as he slowly sat upright again, " **Mark is… much more of a threat to this Manor and to all of us then I let on during the meeting.** "

Amid the pounding that was beginning to appear at the forefront of his mind, The Host couldn't help but scoff at Dark's words. Mark? Markiplier? Really? The Host had seen (granted not many, but still) a few of the man's videos on the Internet in the past. Whenever he had had the chance to leave his brother's cabin to get food for the siblings, The Host would always take a detour to the LA library. It was, quite frankly, one of his favorite places in the whole wide world. That is, until his… ' _ accident' _ , as The Author had so joyfully called it as The Host was being wheeled into the hospital for surgery. But, nonetheless, Mark Fischbach seemed like he wouldn't even hurt a fly. The man had  _ cried _ on  _ camera _ in one of the videos The Host had watched, for God's sake.

So… why was Dark so bent out of shape by someone who didn't seem like a risk at all? Sure, Mark  _ could _ get rid of his entities if he  _ really _ wanted to… But The Host was pretty sure he wouldn't. Wouldn't that be like killing yourself, since all the entities looked the same? The Host was sure that would do something unpleasant to his psych if he even attempted it. So what gives?

" **As such, I have a few tasks that I need each of you to complete immediately** ," Dark rumbled down the table, The Host pulling himself from his thoughts as a sharp jab of pain echoed through his mind. Google Blue, his synthetic hands clenched into tight fists, stared unresponsively at the demon, waiting for Dark to continue to explain whatever task he was about to give them. " **Google** ," Dark said slowly, his hands brushing a strand of his hair out of his eyes while his red aura whipped around above his head, " **Security of Markiplier Manor is to be your top priority. Nobody is to leave without my explicit consent and no one is to enter until they have been thoroughly interviewed. Am I understood?** "

Google Blue's face morphed into a passive expression as five audible clicks resounded from deep within his core, The Host groaning in pain as the mechanical sounds seemed to be drilling their way into his skull. Not wanting to have another episode like he had had that morning, The Host began to whisper his narrations as quietly as he could, praying that what he was doing wasn't distracting the android from whatever he was doing. A moment later, Google Blue's eyes flashed twice and he replied stiffly, "Understood, Darkiplier. Am I to assume that your command also includes Egos along with outside strangers? Or do you wish to make an alteration to your command?"

" **_All_ ** **are to be questioned before coming onto the Manor's property.** "

A smug look spread across Google Blue's face at Dark's words, the android pushing up his slipping glasses with one hand before stating downright sinisterly, "I believe I can manage your task, but I may need assistance from my extensions. Is that acceptable?"

By then, The Host was beginning to get a disturbed feeling in his gut, the smirk that Google Blue had growing across his face only punctuating the fact that something wasn't quite right. Dark, however, seemed to only be getting more agitated with Google Blue's questions.

" **Do what you must, but know that I will be keeping an eye on you as well. Step out of line and I'll know about it. And believe me when I tell you that the consequences for spiting me are dire.** "

"Wonderful."

And then, the android unexpectedly rose from his chair, the old wood screeching dangerously across the floor, and walked quickly out of the room, both The Host and Dark watching solemnly as Google Blue opened the door to the hallway and slid out of the room with a click of the door behind him. 

Shaking his head with an annoyed sigh, Dark shifted in his seat and turned his cold gaze towards The Host, who was desperately trying not to panic as he realized that he was _ alone _ with the demon… and that Dark could basically place any illusion or spell or  _ curse _ on The Host without anyone ever knowing about it. After what had happened with the never ending hallway, The Host wasn't sure he could actually trust Dark enough to be alone in a room with him. It was stupid since The Host knew that he would probably be able to hold his own against the demon should anything actually happen, but the fear that had erupted in his chest when that monster had chased him earlier was still rooted deep in his heart. Twas an irrational fear, but, sometimes, those were the worst kind.

" **Host,** " the demon asked again, agitation leaking into his voice as he nudged the leg of the chair that The Host sitting in with the tip of his shoe, " **For Christ's sake-** "

"Hm?" The Host finally piped up, his voice feeling unusually scratchy from not speaking loudly for a long period of time. The Host's sight flashed quickly and, upon seeing the disgruntled expression of the demon beside him, The Host cleared his throat to get rid of the mucus lodged on his vocal cords before asking, "What was it that Darkiplier asked?"

" **Were you not listening this entire time?** " Dark asked sharply, his eyes shifting back to a bloody crimson as he leaned back in his chair and clicked his tongue in disapproval, " **I'm disappointed, Isaac. I thought you of all people would know how to listen-** "

"No, no, no. The Host was listening," The Host reassured quickly, carefully pushing down his anger of how Darkiplier had used his name before tilting his head towards the demon and beginning to drum his fingers onto the table, "What is it that Darkiplier needs?"

A pregnant silence fell between the two entities as the demon stared at The Host with a stoic expression adorning his face, The Host feeling slightly uneasy as he forced his sight into his vision and looked directly back at Dark unflinchingly. " **The task I have for you is a bit more personal, per say** ," Dark spoke quietly, almost as if he were afraid of someone hearing him from the other side of the hallway door, " **But, to put it simply, I was very much aware of your late brother's** **_habits_ ** **. And I was also aware of just how** **_powerful_ ** **his pen and notebook were when he unleashed them against his unsuspecting** **_playthings_ ** **.** " The Host's vision flickered, his hands unintentionally clenching into fists as he listened to the demon's words bitterly. 

Oh yes. The Host knew  _ very well _ what The Author's magic was capable of. After all, he had been at the receiving end of it for a very long time.

"The Host does not understand what Darkiplier wants," The Host snarled much to his surprise, The Host feeling blood swell up under his fingernails as they dug further and further into the meat of his palm. An evil serpent was beginning to coil tighter and tighter in his chest, The Host knowing that at any moment he was going to lose his cool and start cursing out the manipulative demon beside him. How dare Dark talk about The Author like he HADN'T RIPPED OUT The Host's eyes simply because he felt like it? Like The Host hadn't been lying on the ground sobbing and screaming for help for nearly TWO HOURS before The Author had finally taken pity and driven him to the hospital? Like… like how The Author hadn't pretty much destroyed The Host's life with just the faintest of scrawls with that fucking pen on that fucking notebook? How  _ DARE _ HE!

A clearing of a throat brought The Host back from whatever ledge he had been teetering on, The Host's throat feeling usually dry as teardrops of blood ran down his face. The prolonged use of his sight had gone almost unnoticed since The Host had been so enraptured with his shouting thoughts. He couldn't even really  _ feel  _ any of the pain coming from his head or eyes just because he felt so…  _ numb. _ " **As I was saying** ," the demon's words didn't really stick with The Host, simply drifting in one ear and out the other as he wiped one of the running blood tears off of his cheek with the back of his hand, " **All I need you to do is to retrieve The Author's pen and notebook from his cabin on the other side of LA-** "

"Why?" 

The Host's sharp question seemed to startle the demon for a moment, perhaps not expecting to hear such loathing in The normally docile Host's shrill voice. The blue and red of his auras paused their circling above Dark's head and shoulders almost as if they were each giving The Host a queer look of their own, a creaking noise appearing under the dull monotone of Dark's infernal ringing. It wasn't long before the demon composed himself with a furrowing of his brows and a deep frown across his face. Obviously, Darkiplier did  _ not _ like to be interrupted.

But The Host didn't care.

"Why does The Host have to be the one to retrieve the pen and notebook for Darkiplier? Why can't he just do it himself?"

" **Because** **_Isaac_ ** ," the demon responded testily, his folded hands coming to rest on the table with a thump, " **I have no bloody clue where that disgusting beast of a man would even keep an item as precious as his pen and notebook.** " He leaned forward carefully, making sure not to put too much pressure on his lower back, and continued with a wicked glint in his eye, " **You seem well acquainted with the residence, dear Isaac. I'm sure you'll have no problem locating the objects within the next twenty four hours** ."

The Host recognized a threat when he saw one, his sight remaining stubbornly in place even as his eyes began to burn with pain and his own mouth snapped, "Darkiplier is not ever allowed to call The Host  _ Isaac _ again. This is the last time The Host is saying this. Furthermore, isn't twenty-four hours a stretch considering how long it would take The Host to journey to The Author's cabin on foot?"

" **Don't be dramatic. You can teleport, can't you?** " Dark growled as his eyes flashed back to their ocean blue hue and his ringing died down significantly. The creaking of Dark's auras faded as the demon sighed deeply and stared at the cracked ceiling of the dining room, The Host opening his mouth to retort something along the lines of  _ So-Sorry-That-Darkiplier-Believes-Trama-Is-Dramatic-But-It's-Not-Like-The-Host-Can-Help-It _ only to be interrupted by the demon himself. " **I will be leaving early tomorrow morning to check on the Jim Twins' conditions in Dublin and won't be back until late that night** ," Dark spoke quietly, his voice sounding drained and tired as he lowered his gaze from the ceiling and fixed The Host with a cautious look, " **Do try to get the pen and notebook by then. I don't want to give Mark anymore opportunity to spite me or anyone else longer then I already have.** "

Blood dripped, dropped, dripped, dropped from the ends of The Host's cheeks as he finally let the darkness of his own mind encompass him once more, the strangely melancholy words that the demon had just uttered repeating themselves over and over again in his mind. Was Darkiplier really  _ that _ worried about… about a  _ Youtuber _ ? Was there some piece to this puzzle that The Host simply wasn't understanding? Was Dark withholding information from The Host or was he exaggerating the possibility of danger just so The Host would retrieve the pen and notebook all the faster?

Speaking of which, why did the demon even  _ want  _ those horrible magical items in the first place? Was it to simply keep his brother's artifacts away from Mark like the demon claimed… or was Darkiplier planning something that he hadn't felt obliged to explain. Something, quite possibly, involving the illusion that had been cast over The Host in the never ending hallway… 

God. The Host hoped that for his safety and for  _ Dark's _ that his theory was absolutely, positively wrong.

Breathing in the iron scent of the blood droplets staining the front of his tan trench coat, The Host straightened and said with as much convection as he could muster, "The Host will retrieve The Author's pen and notebook for Darkiplier. But… The Host gets to hold onto the relics while they are inside the Manor. The Host does not wish to tempt fate by handing over two powerful talismans to a demon who has proven to The Host that he cannot be completely trusted."

Silence; The first silence since yesterday that felt crisp and clean to The Host. It was, overall, a comfortable silence, even as Dark's God awful ringing persisted to echo around the dining room.

" **...I begrudgingly accept that offer, my** **_friend_ ** **.** "

The Host wanted to correct the demon on his final statement, but internally thought better of it. Instead, The Host simply smiled tightly and wiped a bloodied hand across his cheek once again, more then luckily just smudging the blood around his face and altogether making himself look all the more sinister.


	13. Chapter 13

"What was that all about?"

Swiveling his head towards the source of the voice, The Host brushed away one of the blood trails sliding down his face instinctively and enacted his sight, The Host cringing back into the darkness of the hallway as the light from the lobby bombarded his vision mercilessly. The Host reached a shaky hand forward to steady himself on the doorframe leading to the lobby, trying to avoid most of the afternoon light emitting from the Victorian windows at the entrance to Markiplier Manor. "Is this Dr. Iplier?" The Host asked cautiously, his grip on the doorframe increasing as he saw a haloed figure drift in and out of his peripheral vision. Immediately after his words left his mouth, The Host flinched. God, why did The Host  _ have _ to say the  _ doctor's _ name? Literally anyone could be talking to him! All the entities sound the  _ fucking same _ !

Embarrassment filled The Host as he straightened and faced the person he was talking to head on, the blind man internally breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the doctor himself standing in front of him. The smell of cool spearmint swirled through the air, the scent bringing The Host almost to tears, as the doctor simply stared at The Host, his eyes wide and his lips tightly pressed together. But, at the moment, The Host wasn't really paying attention to Dr. Iplier's expression; The Host was simply focusing on the fact that he had the doctor in front of him and that  _ now _ he could FINALLY apologize for what he had done that morning. And then maybe The Host could give Dr. Iplier a hug and breath in that spearmint smell he loved so much until he was drunk off of ecstasy.

Hey, stranger things have happened.

Grinning widely, The Host lowered his hand from his face and stuck both of his hands into his coat pockets, the page of  The Great Gatsby that he had picked up earlier sticking to his bloodied hand as he responded cheerfully, "The Host is very joyful to be seeing Dr. Iplier again! Why is he not at work? Did he take the rest of the day off?" The Host's words flooded out of him as took a step towards the doctor, Dr. Iplier's arms crossing in front of his body as a concerned look spread across his face. A bout of confusion coursed through The Host briefly before he shoved it deep down into his gut and continued with a laugh, "Well. It doesn't really matter  _ why _ the doctor is here. The Host must confess that he has something to tell the doctor that he tried to tell the doctor earlier this da-"

"What the  _ fuck _ happened to your face?!"

Two large steps later and Dr. Iplier was directly in front of The Host, the doctor's intense chocolate eyes wide with concern as he watched as a steady stream of blood trailed off the bottom of The Host's face and dripped onto the checkerboard tiles of the lobby. "Dr. Iplier does not need to be so concerned," The Host muttered as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and wiped at the blood trail on his cheek. Dr. Iplier's eye twitched (which The Host found remarkably amusing) as he watched The Host simply swipe the blood off of his cheek while continuing his narration, "Anyway. The Host began his apology before the beginning of Darkiplier's meeting, but was unfortunately interrupted before he could finish. Now that the mee-"

The raised hand of Dr. Iplier in his face paused The Host's stream of thought, the doctor shaking his head sadly as streams of curses flew out of his mouth. A couple of strands of the doctor's messy hair fell into his eyes as he did so, a dull throb vibrating to the front of The Host's brain as Dr. Iplier whispered, "Are you  _ kidding _ me right now?  _ Host _ ," The Host suppressed the shiver that rippled through his body at the pleading tone in the doctor's voice, "Why do you… why do you keep letting yourself… You can't do that! What happens if you bleed out! Or you get an infection! Don't you understand you could  _ fucking die _ if you don't stop the bleeding soon!?"

Blowing a stream of air into the worried doctor's face, Dr. Iplier blinking his eyes rapidly as his nostrils flared, The Host shrugged and replied mildly, "The Host is aware of all these things, Doctor. But The Host believes that Dr. Iplier is missing the point-" Jesus. All The Host wanted to do was apologize. Couldn't the doctor see that? His eyes didn't even  _ hurt _ anymore. In fact, they hadn't hurt since… since the illusion with the never ending hallway...

"Please let me help you fix your eyes. I don't wanna have to drive you all the way to the hospital because your blood ended up all over the floor." 

The Host started at the desperate grumble of Dr. Iplier's voice. Why was the doctor so anxious about The Host's condition? 

Keeping his expression plaintive, The Host watched as Dr. Iplier looked away from The Host's bloody face with a sigh of disdain, the doctor scratching at his chin and muttering quietly, "Christ, Isaac. I'm not going to stop worrying until you get some help, whether it be from me, from someone else, or even from yourself for all I care. Just..  _ Come on _ . Don't be stubborn about this."

The Host didn't respond right away, his sight beginning to fade in and out of focus as red engulfed the edges of his vision. Dr. Iplier continued to watch silently as the  _ rivers _ of blood pouring out of The Host's eye sockets covered the entire lower portion of the blind man's face and trickled beneath the collar of his coat, the doctor looking as though he were debating whether or not to just drag The Host to the hospital or to just walk away. "The Host… is not trying to be stubborn," The Host said eventually, clutching his bloodied hands firmly behind his back as he resisted the temptation to grab the doctor's hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Ducking his head and immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea washed over him, The Host tightened his hold on his hands and muttered so quietly that he felt Dr. Iplier take a tiny step forward just to hear him, "The Host can deal with his eyes on his own. The doctor does not need to burden himself."

A grunt was heard above to him and The Host tilted his head to the side so that he could see Dr. Iplier's reaction to his words. The doctor did not disappoint, the raven haired man running a hand through his curly hair and shaking his head from side to side as The Host's words bounced the surprisingly empty and cavernous lobby. "You're not a burden," Dr. Iplier stated firmly as he lowered his hand and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his white doctor's coat, his chocolate eyes never leaving The Host's face as The Host looked back unwaveringly, "I'll always be here to help…  _ if  _ you want it." The Host raised an inquisitive brow as Dr. Iplier exhaled loudly, his warm eyes leaving the face of The Host and instead focusing on something over The Host's shoulder, before continuing to say somewhat dejectedly, "And since you don't want my help, I'll just… let you deal with your health on your own, I guess. I don't wanna encroach on something that really isn't any of my business."

…

...Why did this feel so much like breakup?

The Host turned his head so that he was in the doctor's line of sight once again, the care and regret shining from Dr. Iplier's eyes making The Host's heart stutter, as he tried to think of a suitable response to  _ that _ . The doctor's words had sounded so… final to The Host. Like he was saying that he wasn't going to talk to The Host about  _ anything _ , not just his botched eyesight, ever again. That was a scary thought for The Host, who had simply wanted to apologize for his misconduct earlier that morning. Maybe The Host really had gone too far when he had grabbed the doctor and  _ fucking threatened  _ him for no goddamn reason… Other then the fact that The Host might be a sociopath. Dr. Iplier really would be better off not being friends (or anything else) with The Host because deep, deep down, The Host knew that one of these days he would do something  _ else _ to hurt the doctor. Something really bad. Emotionally, physically, intentionally, or unintentionally, it didn't really matter how The Host would do it. It was in The Host's _ DNA _ to hurt people and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Yes. Dr. Iplier would be much happier and much safer without The Host is his life. Perhaps the doctor would go out with Dr.  _ Plier _ if The Host ended his and Dr. Iplier's friendship…

And yet…

A very stubborn part of The Host, the part that had been mostly silent since The Host had grabbed Dr. Iplier, insisted that The Host apologize for his grievance and then  _ try _ to keep at least a friendship with the doctor. And if that friendship somehow turned into something more, well then. Wouldn't that just be something? A dribble of his own blood fell into the groove of his mouth and The Host licked at the drop with the tip of his tongue. The only problem was that Dr. Iplier seemed like he maybe didn't want anything to do with The Host anymore. The Host needed an idea and fas-

A small smile spread across The Host's bloody lips as he let his hands fall from behind his back down to his sides with a flutter of his heart. It was a somewhat risky plan, but… if it saved his friendship, then it was worth it.

"The Host would like to offer Dr. Iplier another deal," The Host began confidently, his voice sounding too loud since he had been inside his head for so long. Dr. Iplier seemed startled by The Host's booming words as well, the doctor flinching lightly and frowning before smoothing out his expression to something more passive.

Nodding his head as he shifted his other hand into his other coat pocket, Dr. Iplier raised a brow and said flippantly, "Shoot."

"The Host will fix his eyes on his own, but the Doctor can check them sometime," The Host swallowed. Just say it, you coward, "After The Host apologizes to the Doctor for grabbing him unorthodoxly this morning by taking him out to his favorite restaurant."

There. He might have rushed the last part, but by the surprised look Dr. Iplier was giving him The Host assumed the doctor had heard him well enough.

"Wow," the doctor said after a moment, The Host waiting with baited breath for his response as the doctor blinked rapidly several times, "That was not what I thought you were going to say."

"Is that a yes, Doctor?"

Dr. Iplier laughed breathily before responding, "It's definitely not a no." The Host would take what he could get, a smile spreading across his face as the doctor pulled his hand out of his pocket and looked at his wrist watch with a fixed expression upon his face. After making an aggravated sound, Dr. Iplier lowered his hand and said with a step backwards, "I'm going to have to clear with my boss and  _ triple check _ I don't have any appointments, but does tomorrow work? Like at six or something?"

Tomorrow! That was way sooner then The Host expected, but he wasn't going to let the doctor know that! "The Host will be here, waiting impatiently," The Host coyly replied, another drop of blood falling into his mouth when he did so. How in the Hell did his plan even work when The Host looked like he had straight up  _ murdered _ someone.

Taking another step backwards, Dr. Iplier nodded his head with a surprised laugh and nearly tripped over a piece of a nearby shattered mirror in the process. The Host gulped down a snicker as the doctor's loud swearing filled the lobby. "Jesus motherfucking Christ almighty!" Dr. Iplier exclaimed, kicking the black metal frame of the mirror lightly with the tip of his shoe, "Somebody could break their back over one of these things!"

The Host simply shrugged and made a shooing motion with his hands, ignoring the bright blue and red lights that seemed to be glowing from within the cracks of the mirror. "The Host will talk to Darkiplier while you are away," The Host reassured, the doctor turning his back to The Host has he quickly made his way through the wreckage of shattered glass and broken tiles towards the front door. It wasn't until Dr. Iplier had his hand on the doorknob of the entrance to Markiplier Manor that The Host remembered a question that he had asked earlier and had completely forgotten about until now. "Isn't the doctor late for work? Why didn't the doctor leave after Darkiplier's meeting?" The Host called across the foyer, a feeling of lightheadedness taking over The Host as Dr. Iplier opened the front door and light streamed into the dark building.

The light seemed to create a halo around Dr. Iplier's body, the doctor giving The Host a look that was downright shy before calling back, "I just wanted to make sure you were alright, Host. Uh, you know. Before I left for the day again?" 

Oh.

"Yeah… go put some new bandages on, for God's sake. I don't want you getting an infection before our outing tomorrow."

The Host's stomach fluttered with a million butterflies as the doctor looked away from The Host, muttering something under his breath, and closed the door to the Manor with a clang.

\---

The Host thought about his conversation with Dr. Iplier for the rest of the day, a warm, fluttery feeling growing deep inside his chest when he had causally gotten himself familiar with the Manor, when he had had a conversation with Bing about Microsoft Word (which The Host knew almost  _ zero _ about. He was  _ blind _ . He didn't  _ use _ the computer.), and especially when he had finally replaced the red bandages surrounding his face with fresh white ones. 

Now, with night descending upon Markiplier Manor like a cloak had been thrown over the blazing sun, The Host sighed contently and leaned his head back against the attic wall. The chair he was sitting on was uncomfortable, but The Host didn't really mind. He felt like he was floating on cloud nine, anyway. The musty scent of the attic didn't really bother The Host either, the smell of Dr. Iplier's spearmint cologne taking a permanent residence inside The Host's nose.

The Host was in a lot of trouble, wasn't he?

"But The Host truly didn't care," The Host muttered with a yawn, the blind man leaning backwards in his chair as he stretched his legs forward and crossed his arms over his chest. It might seem like an uncomfortable sleeping spot for anyone else, but The Host had slept in worse places when he was living with The Author so the chair felt like a fine sleeping spot. 

Though The Host doubted he'd sleep much that night; He was far too jittery and excited for his…  _ date _ (oh my God, The Host thought with a grin) with Dr. Iplier tomorrow.

But by the time the perpetually full moon had risen over the forest growing to the left of the Manor, the silver light shining thinly through the trees and then up to attic's tiny circle window, The Host was already fast asleep, dreaming of a happily ever after that he was sure was fast approaching.


	14. Chapter 14

The Host awoke to the feeling of a heavy book being thrown directly into his face. It was, to be quite honest, not a pleasant way to wake up at all. "What the  _ fuck _ ?" The Host gasped as he raised a hand to his bruised face, the entity scrambling to sit up straight in his seat and to enact his sight to see who was in front of him, "The Host was roused rudely from his peaceful slumber by a man that had no business throwing books into unsuspecting people's faces." The Host narrations came swiftly from his lips as he listened carefully to his surroundings and tried to gauge where the other entity was based on the creaking floorboards of the attic. A particularly loud squeak followed by an angry growl had The Host whipping his head towards the entrance to the attic, his heart jumping to his throat as he heard the entity take another step towards him. 

"The Host began to become much more wary of his surroundings, the threat of imminent danger hanging like a guillotine over his head," The Host tried to narrate confidently, but all the words he spoke dripped like molasses from his lips. Another loud squeak had The Host jumping to his feet (the blind man feeling momentarily dizzy as he tried to wake himself up and get his bearings) snarling out of fear, "The Host advises that whomever is up here  _ back the fuck up _ . One step closer to The Host and he who is up here will be  _ wishing  _ they had left when they had the chance."

"Shut the fuck up with that bullshit, Host. I'm not playing your stupid games."

The Host frowned deeply as his sight finally entered his vision, his stomach dropping sharply before rage began to consume his whole body. Practically shaking with anger, The Host stared at the surgeon in front of him and growled, "The Host playing games. Does Francis even realise how ridiculous that sounds?" The Host watched with smug satisfaction as a flicker of fear crossed over the surgeon's features, Francis' hands bunched tightly into fists as he glared back defiantly. Apparently The Author hadn't knocked out the surgeon's gumption, as The Host had previously thought. The Author must have _really_ _liked_ him. 

Turning away from the staring match with a disgusted noise, The Host began to comb the area around his chair for the book that he was sure Francis had slammed into his face. It didn't take him long to find it, the blue covered book tucked neatly under The Host's wooden seat and wedged between the thin wall and one of the chair's legs. "Shut up. How did that book get into my room?" Francis asked forcefully as The Host (unwisely, he chidded himself) bent over to reach under his chair and pull out the book, a look of annoyance washing over him as he heard the surgeon step closer, "How. Did. That. Book-"

"The Host fucking understands," The Host snarled as he ripped the book out from under the chair and stood quickly, his thumb playing ideally with the spine of the book as his other hand brushed away any of the dust that got stuck on his jacket. Catching a quick glance out the window, The Host swore internally when he saw that it was still dark out. He had been awakened in the middle of the night just because of motherfucking Francis. That was just  _ great _ . It was  _ way  _ too early to be dealing with this shit. "The Host doesn't know how the book got to Francis' room," The Host grumbled as he watched the surgeon drift in and out of the shifting shadows of the attic. A small grin spread slowly across The Host's face, Francis pausing from his pacing to watch The Host with a furious gaze, as the blind man said sardonically, "Francis was always so forgetful when he was with  _ The Author _ . Perhaps he is simply put the book into his room earlier that night and forgotten since the surgeon can be such a  _ retard _ at times."

…where the Hell had  _ that _ come from? The Host hardly knew anything about Francis and yet he had already assumed he had been associated with The Author somehow. 

No. Not assumed.

Though he didn't know exactly  _ how _ he knew, The Host knew that the surgeon had known The Author before he died.

The Host just… had a  _ feeling _ . Perhaps it was his new psychopathic tendencies that had brought him to that conclusion, but The Host's feelings were almost  _ never _ wrong… 

Regardless, The Host still regretted his words immediately after saying them, the surgeon's face morphing from one of fury to one of fear in a matter of seconds. " _ Fuck. You, _ " the surgeon hissed as he walked steadily towards The Host, the blind entity getting ready to defend himself should he have to by gripping the book in his hand all the tighter, "You're just trying to  _ fuck _ with my mind. Guess what? It ain't gonna work. Not this time." Now that he was standing only a few feet in front of him, The Host could see the red tinges in the Francis' hair and could smell the sharp, clinical scent that was so much like Dr. Iplier and yet so… not. Francis' eyes flickered to the book in The Host's hand as he whispered, "I'm not going through all that shit again and I'm not going to be a part of any experiment of yours or whatever the Hell your plan is. You leave a  _ threat _ in my room again and I will personally make your life suffer."

What? A threat? How was a book a threat? "The Host does not understand half of what Francis is talking about," The Host supplied lamely as he leaned away from the surgeon, feeling the red hot of his anger seep out of his body and down to the dark and cracking floorboards under his feet. Francis was afraid of The Host, that much was clear. But what could have been in that book to create such a violent response from the surgeon, who had completely steered clear of The Host after their little spat that morning? Or the previous morning; The Host had no idea what time it was.

A sizzling silence permeated the air between the two entities, the book in The Host's itching his palm and begging him to sneak a glance at it. Eventually, Francis inhaled a shaky breath and backed out of The Host's personal space, the surgeon turning on his heel without a word and swiftly making his way to the ladder that led out of the attic. The surgeon looked over his shoulder only once, The Host watching him go as his vision faded in and out painfully, before he muttered something under his breath and climbed down to the second floor of the Manor, the tips of his red hair being the last thing The Host saw before his vision faded completely and the trapdoor Francis had just descended closed with a slam.

What a way to be woken up.

The Host let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding in as he fell back into his wooden chair with a thwump, shivers beginning to rack up and down his body as the cold air of the window behind him surrounded him like a wet blanket. He placed the book that Francis had chucked at his face on his lap, The Host tracing the title of the book of his right index finger as he tried to relax a little bit. That was a highly stressful situation to wake up to and to say that The Host wasn't at least a little bit startled would be untruthful. "After his confrontation with Francis, The Host could feel intrigue begin to creep to the front of his mind concerning the book that the surgeon had thrown into The Host's face," The Host muttered as he placed a palm flat onto the cool surface of the book and breathed in deeply. Flipping the book open to a random page, The Host grazed his fingers over the sentences and words that adorned the page casually and continued, "The Host does not know how the book  The Great Gatsby can be seen as a threat..." 

He paused, his brows furrowing as he felt the rips and the irregular ink splatters that covered the page he had turned to.

Wait.

Wasn't this the book that The Host had found here in the attic only three days ago?

The Host shuddered as the temperature of the room dropped to that of the Arctic Tundra, his fingers shaking as he flipped through the book rapidly and felt that each and every page had a marking of some sort on it. Not only that, the yellowing pages of F. Scott Fitzgerald flew out of the book whenever The Host turned the pages too fast. That all but confirmed it for The Host. This was, in fact, the same copy of the book that he had found three days ago.

Which begs the question: how the fuck did this book end up all the way in Francis' room? The last time The Host had seen the book, he had left it neatly on the seat he was sitting on right now. The Host internally kicked himself for not checking for the book when he had gone to bed at the beginning of the night. Then he would have been able to tell for sure if Francis had gotten the book before last night or during the night time. Or maybe the surgeon was just looking for a reason to threaten The Host and had taken the book himself when The Host hadn't been looking. But… Francis had seemed genuinely terrified to have found this book in his room. And The Host  _ knew _ what real terror looked like. If Francis had been faking his fear, The Host would have noticed.

Then WHO had moved the book if it wasn't the surgeon and it certainly wasn't The Host? WHO else knew about the attic and that the book was contained therein? WHO would want to threaten a man who hadn't done anything particularly horrible while inside the Manor? WHO had The Host seen with a book recently?

…

The Host slowly closed the book and ran his hand over the cover. Visions of blood and visceral and sharp, sharp teeth danced through his mind as the answer hit him like a bolt of lightning.

_ Darkiplier _ . 

The Host recalled that Dark had been  _ reading _ when The Host had stumbled out of his goddamn illusion. 

Sure, the demon could have been reading a different book… but who else would know that  The Great Gatsby had been in the attic other then the man who  _ lived _ here? Why would the demon threaten Francis though? As far as The Host knew, Darkiplier held no qualms against the surgeon. Maybe…

The threat had been given to Francis in order to  _ frame _ The Host. For  _ what _ ? The Host didn't have any fucking clue! What the  _ fuck  _ was going on?! Bouts of anxiety washed up and down his body uncomfortably as he mulled over his thoughts with a racing heart.

In the midst of his mini panic attack, The Host's sight flashed unexpectedly...

And The Host nearly stopped breathing at what he saw on the cover of the book. 

There, carved into the cover in that spidery calligraphy that adorned the rest of the book, read a simple message:

_ YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO TRY HARDER THEN THAT IF YOU WANT TO STAY HIDDEN FROM MY SIGHT ~ _


	15. Chapter 15

The demon had bright red eyes as it glared solemnly at The Host from the other side of the attic, The Host feeling fear creep through his body as he sat paralyzed in his chair. The blind man's senses were screaming at him, trying to warn him of the obvious threat that stood passively only a few steps away from him, but The Host himself couldn't move. His arms felt like dead weights at his side and his legs had fallen asleep when The Host had finally drifted off after Francis' confrontation. His sight wasn't exactly cooperating either, flashing rapidly almost like a camera lens and supplying The Host's woozy mind with only some of the details of the rather  _ tiny _ attic. All the finer points, such as  _ the exit _ , were obscured by the darkness that filled the room like smoke, choking out all the light and leaving The Host feeling utterly trapped in his little corner by the circle window.

Sucking in a gulpful of the freezing air, The Host patted his lap in order to pick up the one weapon he could possibly defend himself with in the company of the demon slowly starting to stalk towards him, an icicle of panic shooting through his body as he soon realised that  _ the book wasn't there _ . Had he placed it on the ground before going to sleep? No, he had  _ fallen asleep _ with the book on his lap! Where the fuck was it!? The Host shivered uncomfortably and shifted farther back in his seat, wrapping his weighty arms around him and planting his feet firmly on the ground as his burning Sight displayed the stony expression of Dark as the demon slowly made his way out of the shadows.

Grinding his teeth together, The Host tried to breathe evenly, his gasps of air sounding more like the dying cries of a feral beast then that of a (somewhat) human, before fixing Dark with the meanest look he could muster in his adhered state. God, it was like he was in a straight jacket! He could barely move at all! Wriggling around in his seat so that he wasn't reclining backwards anymore, The Host let the frigid air that was seeping through the window beside him beat against his exposed face as he muttered in the demon's general direction, "The Host thought Darkiplier was at the hospital with the Jim Twins."

" **I am~** "

_ What? _

Frowning deeply as his foggy mind tried to process the demon's confusing words, The Host stole a quick glance out the window to his left and nearly stopped breathing altogether. 

So… he definitely wasn't in the attic of Markiplier Manor. Last time he checked, it doesn't  _ snow _ in Los Angeles, California in the middle of  _ May _ .

This wasn't good  _ at all _ .

"Where did Darkiplier take The Host?" The Host asked shakily, the disgusting smell of blood and cedarwood assaulted his nostrils as The Host tried to shrink farther into his tan coat. The Host kept his eye sockets trained to the floor as he listened to Dark's expensive shoes slowly crack against the decaying wooden floorboards, not wanting to risk seeing the grotesque face of a  _ hungry _ demon in front of him. Seeing a stony face dripping with blood would have only added to his panic. It's not like The Host could fight  _ back _ or anything. Plus, a submissive gesture  _ always  _ seemed to work on  _ The Author _ whenever his brother was in a homicidal mood. Perhaps Dark would take him back to the Manor if The Host simply showed that he was no threat…

But no. It seemed as though the demon would not be so easily deterred from his prey, Dark's tar black aura scrapping alongside The Host's face and leaving a deep scrape as if to prove a point. A rumble of cruel laughter left the demon's thin lips and quickly began to reverberate against the frail walls of wherever the Hell The Host was. Shit, was Dark able to read The Host's mind? When- when had that happened?

A feeling of hopelessness and despair, two very scary emotions that were  _ far _ too connected with The Author for The Host to be even remotely comfortable, swam unwantedly through The Host's veins, The Host's Sight beginning to flash wildly as if it knew where this encounter with Dark was going. This wasn't another one of the demon's illusions; This felt  _ real _ . 

And that left The Host shaking not only from the temperature, but also from pure, unadulterated terror. 

" **Oh Isaac. You ask quite a few questions for a dead man~** "

A quick flash of his Sight later and The Host screamed, his piercing shout silenced almost immediately by the feeling of The demon's hand clamping down on The Host's windpipe. Dark's long fingers felt like a  _ brand _ against The Host frozen neck as the demon slowly raised The Host from his seat, the blind man struggling by kicking his limp legs back and forth lamely as he swung in the air. Rivers of blood began to pour out of The Host's eyes and drip off the end of his chin as he opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his own blood leaking into his mouth as he tried to say something and yet none of the words formed correctly on his tongue.

" **Any final words, dear Isaac?~** "

From this close, The Host could hear what sounded like a duality of voices echoing behind the demon's contented question. It was strange, but it didn't keep The Host's attention for long. It was hard to focus on anything but the blazing heat squeezing his neck and the feeling of unconsciousness slowly slipping over him.

This wasn't anything new for The Host; he had been brought damn near death many times before.

But the man choking him wasn't The Author, a man that simply wanted to torture and break his victims instead of outright killing them.

_ Dark _ was the one of his hands around The Host's neck. And The Host highly doubted that a demon, a creature born of hatred and anguish, simply wanted to scare The Host, leave a few marks, and then let him be on his merry way.

A series of convolutions raked The Host's body as The Host forced his Sight to remain in his vision, the smirking face of the demon staring up at him with garnet colored eyes as The Host croaked, "W-w-wh-y?"

A laugh that bellowed from the demon's lips made The Host whimper in fear, the hand around his neck crushing all of The Host's air supply with a single squeeze. " **'Why' he asks~** " Dark snickered hatefully, the demon almost dropping The Host onto the broken floor from his own amusement as he started to cackle gleefully. Once he had finally calmed down, the demon cleared his throat and slicked back his already perfect hair with the palm of his empty hand, his red eyes growing dark as he grinned and lowered The Host so that he was the same height as the demon. " **Why~** " the demon began quietly, his wide smile never faltering as he brushed down the front of The Host's jacket with his free hand until he nodded his head with approval, " **Because I** **_want to_ ** **, Isaac~** ."

With those final words, The Host watched in shock as the demon whipped his hand away from The Host before swinging it back around and plunging it  _ deep  _ into The Host's chest with a sickening  _ squeelshing _ sound. The Host barely had any time to register the pain, shock already enveloping his entire body, before Dark, his red eyes gleaming demonically as his black aura engulfed the two entities, twisted his hand  _ just right _ and ripped The Host's heart directly from his chest with a 

_ SPLASH! _

\---

With a scream of agony, The Host bolted upright, the blind man nearly falling off the couch he had been sleeping on as he floundered and flailed amongst the thin blankets that were cocooning his shivering body. The Host greedily drank in mouthfuls of air, one of his hands rushing to his chest to check for any sign of a recent heart transplant via a vengeful demon… Dry sobs began to quietly trickle from his lips when he felt nothing but his own skin under his fingers. 

It had been a dream.

Nothing but a very, very,  _ very _ vivid dream.

The Host hadn't had a night terror like  _ that _ in a long while. 

Unwrapping the rest of his body from the cocoon of blankets around his arms and swinging his legs over the side of the couch with a heavy sigh, The Host let his Sight enter his vision, The Host quickly deducing with a hiss of surprise that he was in the living room of the Manor. Bright sunlight filtered leisurely through the sun door's iron slats from across the room, the dirty beer and wine bottles that lay across the wooden floor casting unsaturated rainbows across the pale walls and creating distorted shadows underneath their cracked bodies. The distinct smell of dish cleaner fluid and eggs hung aloofly in the still air, The Host's stomach growling obnoxiously at the thought of food. His arms were still shaking as The Host clasped his hands in front of him and bent his head forward with a whimper, his bleeding heart thudding so fast that The Host was sure he was going to have a heart attack if he didn't figure out a way to calm himself down.

"The Host had just awakened from one of the most stressful dreams he had ever experienced," The Host whispered sadly, wringing his hands together as he  _ tried _ to reduce the feeling of someone crushing his head inwards with sentences and words by narrating. A noise to his left, the sound resembling that of a swinging door, caused The Host's words to dry up on the tip of his tongue before he could continue, a feeling of intense fear engulfing The Host's body and mind as he shivered involuntarily and listened for any more noises that might resemble that of human activity. After a beat of pure silence, The Host stopped biting the inside of his cheek and, trying not to burst into a flurry of anxious tears, muttered, "The Host did not entirely know what happened to him while he had slept. The last thing The Host remembered was arguing with Francis and then throwing the book the surgeon had given him to the other side of the attic as hard as he could…"

How had he ended up in the living room?

The Host had never sleep walked before-

"Nice. You're awake."

To say The Host jumped when he heard another voice directly to his left would be an understatement. The Host felt as though his soul had left his body and then had been forcibly shoved back into his crippled form as The Host whipped his head towards the voice with a growl. "Who. The fuck. Is The Host speaking to?" The Host snarled as he scooched back onto the couch, the small of his back being pressed firmly against the corner of the sofa as The Host hiked his legs to his chest and wrapped his shaking arms around them tightly. His Sight flashed and he breathed in nervously as he saw that it was only Stan standing in the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, a water bottle tightly in his hand as his blond eyebrows knitted tightly together with concern. "Ah," The Host said quietly, the blond waterman giving him a quizzical look as he walked out of the doorway and over to The Host, "It's only Stan Wheeler."

"Yeppero. That's my name," Stan replied with a waggle of his mustache, The Host tightening his grip around his legs as he watched Stan take a seat on one of the cushioned chairs that stood near the couch. Pinching the end of his khaki shorts and adjusting his seated position with a comfortable sigh, the blond waterman gazed The Host with a look that could only be described as sympathetic. "You were having a really bad dream," Stan stated bluntly, his blue eyes moving to shiny piece of plastic in his hand as he swirled the water contained inside with a twist of his wrist, "Shouting, crying, loooots of grunting too." The Host cringed, his mind feeling fuzzy as he tried to ward off the feeling of sleep that was crawling into the back of his mind, at Stan's words, beginning to mutter as quietly as he could under his breath so that at least the pressure to talk would ease up in his mind. The blond waterman either didn't notice The Host's narrations or ignored them, choosing instead to wipe at the underside of his nose with the backside of his hand and continue proudly, "I felt real bad when I saw you just lying there, wriggling around and whimpering in your sleep. So I woke you up with some genuine liquid gift from God that I got from the kitchen sink."

Stan jiggled the water bottle he had in his fingers with a smile, The Host watching the movement with a parted mouth as a confused expression descended upon his face. Stretching his legs away from his chest and extending them further down the lumpy couch in a somewhat relaxed position, The Host asked jankily, "So what Stan the Waterman is trying to say is that he poured water onto The Host's face to wake The Host up while The Host was having a nightmare?"

"Yes." A crestfallen look engulfed the blond waterman's features as he shifted his eyes between the water bottle and The Host and asked uneasily, "Is-is that alright? I wasn't trying to intrude on your dreaming or whatever, but you seemed like you were having a rough go of it… I was just trying to help, you know."

If The Host could roll his eyes, then would have been the perfect opportunity. That was the third time while The Host had been inside Markiplier Manor that someone had said they were 'just trying to help' to the blind entity.  _ Wow _ . Maybe all the entities were more alike then The Host originally thought. "Stan the Waterman's actions are much appreciated by The Host," The Host replied with a yawn, Stan's mouth splitting into a wide grin that The Host was sure was going to rip the sides of his face, "What time is it?"

Standing up from his chair with a crack of his knees, Stan sauntered over to The Host, The Host involuntary shrinking just a little bit farther back on the couch, and said as he crouched down to The Host's height, "Close to twelve. You tromped down out of the attic at around breakfast time. Everyone was debating whether or not we should wake you when you crashed onto the couch, but eventually we decided to just let you be." It was hard to focus on what the blond waterman was saying, The Host closing off his Sight as his eyes started burning and when the sunlight from the patio doors went from being warm and comforting to sharp and annoying. As the near darkness of his mind settled over him, The Host yawned again, feeling unimaginably tired as he nodded his head in time with Stan's words whenever he thought it was appropriate. 

He needed another hour of proper,  _ nightmare-less _ sleep before The Host could even begin to try to understand why he had sleepwalked (for the first time EVER, mind you) out of the attic and all the way downstairs along with why the FUCK he had had that "night terror" in the first place. Was it even a dream at all? It was  _ still  _ hard for The Host to drink in all the air that he needed when his throat felt  _ sore... _ almost like he had been choked in real life-

"Here. Take this." Something cold and firm was shoved into The Host's hand, the blind man momentarily freezing up as he was pulled from his musings before he recognized the cylinder shape as a water bottle. Crunching the bottle just for a little extra proof, The Host slid farther down on the couch and rested his head a top one of the pillows with a grumble of pain as Stan continued in a proud voice, "It's my job to make sure that the people of this city get enough water and stay hydrated! I don't want you to die in your sleep because of your low  _ aqua _ consumption!"

_ Yes. Because that makes complete sense _ , The Host thought silently as he twisted the cap off the top of the water bottle and tilted the water carefully into his mouth, trying not to spill any of the water onto the ancient couch below him. When he had had his full, The Host capped the bottle and extended his hand towards the blond waterman. "The Host thanks Stan the Waterman for his courteous behavior," The Host praised with another yawn, this time covering his mouth so he didn't seem rude to the clearly excitable man in front of him. For good measure, The Host smiled as he pulled one of the soft blankets back around his body and said, "The water was very tasty to The Host."

Stan the Waterman snorted and, shaking the bottle in his hand, replied somewhat angrily, "It could have been the best damn water you had ever tasted if the pipes weren't all rusted through! It makes me so upset when people don't take care of their water source! It's not like you need water to SURVIVE or anything!" Rising from his squatted position on the floor, the blond waterman tucked the water bottle into the front of his fannie pack and, placing his hands on his hips, asked somewhat teasingly, "Do I need to tuck you in?"

Shaking his head in a polite no, The Host curled into a ball and bunched up the end of the blanket he was clutching with his fists, the entity hoping silently that he wouldn't have another nightmare or night terror… or illusion or  _ whatever _ when he eventually drifted off. "The Host is going to rest now," The Host mumbled as he brought the blanket up to his nose and breathed in the comforting scent of spearmint and clean cotton calmly.

_ Dr. Iplier _ .

The Host smiled softly and tried not to think about demons crawling out from dark corners and ripping his chest open as he began to succumb to his exhaustion. Instead, he focused on the image of Dr. Iplier's kind brown eyes gazing down on him as the doctor tucked his blankets around The Host's shivering form while the blind man slept. A warm tingle of butterflies echoed through The Host's body as a feeling of peace settled over him. Hopefully, with good thoughts bouncing around in his brain, there would be NO MORE night terrors for today.

\---

"Stay away! The Host is warning you-"

" **Aw~ Scared, are we? Did you really think you could escape me by simply** **_waking up_ ** **? I am** **_everywhere_ ** **, Isaac~ In every corner, every crack, and every crevice of this God forsaken Manor~ There is no escaping me~** "

"The Host knows that he is dreaming! Darkiplier is far, far away, visiting the Jim Twins in Dublin! This is all fake, a cruel trick created by The Host's own delusions!"

" **Keep telling yourself that,** **_Hosty_ ** **. It will make your suffering all the more pleasurable to me~** "

"Notrealnotrealnotrealnotrealnotreal…"

The Host could feel the warm panting of the beast that had bitten his shoulder yesterday on his cheek, the blankets he had wrapped around himself for protection feeling like ropes that were slowly numbing his arms and legs. 

He was trapped.  _ Again _ .

A scalding hand delicately brushed away a piece of The Host's bangs as they fell across his forehead from his writhing, The Host trying to shake the hand away and not succeeding as the demon patted the top of The Host's head gently. " **Truth be told, I rather like you like this~** " Dark murmured as he dropped to his knees in front of the couch, his smile deceptively innocent as his eyes flashed a wine colored shade, " **Trapped. Completely under my control. It is such a wonder to behold~** " The demon chuckled lowly to himself before muttering, " **I understand now why you crave this so much** ~"

Not completely understanding what the demon was talking about, The Host whimpered as he pressed as far as he could against the back of the couch in order to get some space between him and the demon. "The Host is going to wake up. Darkiplier has no power over him when he is awake," The Host gasped stubbornly, his head feeling as though it were melting under the demon's hand, "The Host knows Darkiplier holds no real power. Why else would Darkiplier attack The Host while he is asleep?"

The demon's smirk dissolved into a frown as he raised a brow and snarled, " **You'll be long dead before you even get the chanc-** " The demon paused, his garnet eyes flickering to the right as The Host felt something jostle him. Distantly, The Host thought he could hear someone calling his name. With a growl, Dark turned back to The Host, bringing his face close enough to The Host's that the blind entity could smell the cedar oozing around his tar black aura.

  
" **When I'm finished with you, he's next~** " Dark whispered maniacally as light crashed down upon The Host with a roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this series as of right now. I plan to continue this series in the future, but until then, that's all folks! Thank you so, so much for reading my story! Kudos and comments are always welcome! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Thank you for taking the time to read Part 3 of my silly little ego story (as I affectionately call it)! If you liked what you read, let me know and leave either a comment or kudos below (I don't care which lol)! Thanks again! Bye-bye!


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